..  , 


"  'WIFE?    WIFE?    WHO  TALKS  OF  WIVES  TO  MY  DAUGHTER?"' 


Strong  Mac 


BY 

S.  R.  Crockett 

Author  of  "  The  Raid- 
ers," "Joan  of  the 
Sword  Hand,"  "Cin- 
derella," etc.  xx xxx 


Illustrated  by 
Maurice  Grcijfenhagen 


New  York 

anti  Compattg 

1904 


Copyright,  1902,  by  S.  R.  CROCKETT. 


Published  March,  1904. 


BURR   PRINTING   HOUSE 
NEW   YORK 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  DECLARATION  OF  WAR    .        .        .        .        . 

II.  THE  LOWRAN  DOMINIE 

III.  How  ADORA  GRACIE  KEPT  SCHOOL 

IV.  THE  PLOUGHING  MATCH        .        .        . 

V.  A  WOMAN  SCORNED 

VI.  GREAT  WAS  THE  FALL  THEREOF    . 

VII.  BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  WITH  GRAVECLOTHES 

VIII.  THE  SOUR  MANNA  OF  REVENGE 

IX.  THE   CLEUCH    OF    PLUCKAMIN 

X.  OH,  THAT  IT  WERE  YESTERDAY!  . 

XL  WITHOUT  ARE  DOGS  \ 

XII.  THE  TALE  OF  DAID  THE  DEIL  .... 

XIII.  THE    CAMPAIGN 

XIV.  THE  NEW  WORLD  OF  LOWRAN 
XV.  A  CONFIDENTIAL  CONVERSATION 

XVI.  INFLUENCE    BY    RICOCHET       .... 

XVII.    LOVE   BY   RESOLUTION 

XVIII.    THE  BATTLE  ENGAGES 

XIX.    THE  SUB-SOIL  OF  CRIME 

XX.  AN  OLD  MAID'S  TEA-PARTY  .... 

XXI.    THE  SHERIFF'S  ROOM 

XXII.    THE  DARK  COMPANION 

XXIII.  AN  HIGH  DAY  IN  LOWRAN  .... 

XXIV.  COUNTER- STROKE  TREACHEROUS 

XXV.  WHAT  DICKIE  DICK  FOUND  ON  THE  GLEBE  ROAD 

XXVI.  SANDY  EWAN'S  UNSEEN  VISITOR  . 

XXVII.  THE  SECOND  KNIFE  THRUST  .... 

XXVIII.  OUT    OF    GOOD— EVIL 

XXIX.  THE   DEEPEST  DEPTH 

XXX.  ADORA  FINDS  HER  SOUL 

XXXI.  THE  WOLF'S  CUB 

XXXII.  DEVIL'S  WORK 

XXXIII.  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  "FORTUNE'S  QUEEN"  . 

XXXIV.  ENEMY'S   COUNTRY  . 


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£69559 


IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXV.    THE  LATIMER  TEMPER 279 

XXXVI.  THE  PROPHETIC  UTTERANCES  OF  CAPTAIN  EBE- 

NEZER   SINCLAIR 286 

XXXVII.    COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE 293 

XXXVIII.    "By  A  MAJORITY!" 303 

XXXIX.  Two  MEN  AND  THE  WOMAN      ....  314 

XL.  THE  SHEIL  OF  THE  BLACK  WATER       .        .        .322 

XLI.    THE  HEART  OF  ADORA 333 

XLII.  "HOLD  YOUR  TONGUE,  WOMAN  !"  .        .        .        .  340 

XLIII.    BALGRACIE  OF  BALGRACIE 346 

XLIV.    THE    NAME!    . 353 

XLV.    LOVER  OR  FRIEND 362 

XLVI.     QUESTIONS  TO  ASK 370 

XLVII.  THE  DOMINIE  ASSERTS  HIMSELF  .        .        .        .375 

XL VII I.    DAID'S  CROWNING  MERCY 384 

XLIX.    A  FEW  OPINIONS 390 

L.    THREADS  DRAWN  TOGETHER 396 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"  'Wife?  Wife?   Who  talks  of  'wives'  to  my  daugh- 
ter?'"        Frontispiece 

"  'Ye  besom/  he  shouted,  Til  fell  ye  dead  for  that'  "  .        .8 
"  'My  faith !'  he  cried,  'ye  are  bonnier  than  ever'  "        .        -34 

"  'Oh,  you  shouldn't,  father,'  she  cried" 88 

"  'And  now,'  said  Adora  Gracie    .     .     .     'Listen'  "  .        .        .  126 
"  'I  shall  see   you    flung    to  the    door,  as    the    dirt   beneath 

my    feet'  " 174 

"  'Ye  can  e'en  tell  the  story  yoursel' ' " 200 

"The   two    silently    shook    hands"    ,,,...  314 


STRONG  MAC 


CHAPTER  I. 

DECLARATION  OF  WAR. 

A  GREAT  noise  had  been  proceeding  all  the  morning 
from  the  schoolhouse  of  Lowran,  a  noise  which  would 
without  doubt  have  attracted  the  notice  of  the  passers-by, 
had  there  been  any.  But  as  there  were  none  (except  a 
stray  cat  supposed  to  belong  to  Jake  Allerdyce,  the  vil- 
lage ne'er-do-weel,  and  her  friend  Cruncher,  a  Jaongrel 
terrier  of  many  picturesque  attainments),  the  noise  in 
Lowran  school  passed  without  notice. 

The  schoolhouse  was  situated  in  a  wood,  with  only  a 
square,  grassless  space,  called  the  playground,  before  it. 
A  hundred  yards  away  was  the  highroad  to  the  village 
of  Lowran,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  hill. 

It  consisted  of  a  single  chamber  with  a  porch,  where 
girls  left  their  hats,  and  some  of  the  country  pupils  their 
dinner-baskets,  and  on  whose  steep  roof  the  favourite  boy 
of  the  day  clambered  to  ring  the  cracked  school  bell.  The 
dimensions  of  Lowran  schoolroom  were  these:  Eleven 
strides  of  Donald  Gracie,  the  schoolmaster,  took  him  from 
the  writing  benches  at  the  upper  end  to  the  door  of  the 
porch.  With  two  more  he  could  put  himself  into  an 
excellent  strategic  position,  from  which  he  could  at  once 
command  the  outer  door  of  entrance  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  grope  under  the  coats  for  hidden  strag- 
glers. Donald  Grade's  faith  in  human  nature,  never 
strong,  had  suffered  a  sad  shock  on  the  day  when,  cas- 
ually shutting  the  school  door  behind  him  for  a  moment, 
he  had  found  Daid  McRobb,  the  "deil"  of  the  school,  sus- 


2  STRONG  MAC 

pended  by  his  hands  from  the  peg  under  his  own  over- 
coat. Daid  had  answered  to  his  name  at  the  calling  of 
the  roll  a  moment  before,  and  there  was  a  mark  in  the 
register  to  show  that  he  was  within  his  duty.  But  here, 
within  twenty  seconds  of  the  closing  of  the  roll-book,  lo ! 
Daid  was  found  suspended  by  the  clasped  hands,  his  feet 
lifted  from  the  ground  and  his  angelic  face  upturned, 
when  the  schoolmaster  drew  aside  the  tails  of  his  over- 
coat. 

Daid  was  soundly  thrashed.  That  was  a  matter  of 
course.  But  Donald  Gracie  sat  no  whit  the  more  com- 
fortable on  his  chair  of  state  for  having  settled  Daid's 
account.  His  faith  in  human  nature  had  suffered.  He 
felt  that  he  was  being  spied  upon. 

And  the  reason  why  he  cared  was  simply  this.  There  was 
a  certain  bottle  in  the  breast  pocket  of  that  overcoat — not 
a  large,  vulgar  black  bottle,  but  a  slim,  pocketable,  round- 
bottomed  bottle,  with  a  cork  which  could  be  drawn  with- 
out any  noise.  It  was  after  Donald  Gracie  had  drawn  the 
cork,  but  before  he  had  set  the  bottle  to  his  lips,  that 
he  discovered  Daid  McRobb. 

But  upon  this  warm,  misty  morning  of  late  autumn  or 
early  winter  (which  you  will)  affairs  in  the  schoolhouse 
had  become  more  serious.  About  the  school,  all  down 
the  wheel  tracks  on  either  side  of  the  guttery  road,  the 
dead  leaves  lay  dank  and  sodden.  The  thaw  had  come 
after  the  first  nip  of  frost,  and  with  it  the  day  of  the  great 
ploughing  match,  in  which  Lowran  met  its  neighbouring 
parish  of  Kirkanders. 

Now  in  Lowran  the  summer  conditions  of  tuition  are 
as  follows :  The  school  consists  of  twenty  to  twenty-five 
village  bairns,  mostly  under  the  age  of  ten ;  one  or  two 
lassies  somewhat  older,  the  children  of  a  few  well-to-do 
farmers  who  prefer  a  continuous  education  to  receiving 
manual  assistance  in  the  fields — from  their  daughters. 
Their  sons  take  the  matter  in  their  own  hands  and  refuse 
to  attend  school  on  any  terms.  Besides  these,  only  the 
bees  and  the  wood-birds,  with — a  godsend  alike  to 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  3 

teacher  and  scholars — the  advent  of  Chattera,  the  pet 
squirrel  of  the  village  and  the  property  of  Crob  McRobb, 
the  father  of  the  aforesaid  Daid  the  Deil. 

In  winter,  however,  all  was  changed  at  the  Lowran. 
Dominie  Gracie  was  allowed  by  all  to  "hae  the  knowledge 
and  eke  the  airt  of  imparting  it"  (here  the  country  folk 
looked  at  each  other  and  nodded  ever  so  slightly).  "That 
is,  if  only ,"  one  of  them  would  add. 

"Aye,  man,  ye're  speakin'  I" 

"Aye !" 

3jC  ****** 

The  schoolroom  of  Lowran  was  crowded  in  winter 
— especially  so  this  29th  day  of  November  of  the 
year  of  grace  1810,  the  day  of  the  great  inter-parochial 
ploughing.  There  were  young  men  of  twenty  present — 
Jock  Fairies  of  the  Holm,  James  McCulloch  of  House  of 
Muir,  and  Roy,  his  brother,  both  of  whom  travelled  ten 
miles  down  from  the  hills  each  morning.  Besides  these, 
thirteen  able-bodied  youths  of  all  ages  from  sixteen  to 
twenty  crowded  one  entire  side  of  the  school,  sitting  at 
desks  with  their  faces  to  the  windows,  while  at  the  oppo- 
site end  were  an  equal  number  of  mature  young  women, 
taking  their  winter's  schooling  after  a  summer  spent  in 
the  hayfield,  the  barn,  the  byre  and  the  harvest  rig. 

The  noise  in  the  Lowran  school  came  from  the  young 
men's  bench.  It  had  been  understood  that  the  ploughing 
match  day  was  to  be  a  holiday.  It  had  been  a  holiday, 
indeed,  since  the  beginning  of  time.  But  for  some  reason 
Donald  Gracie,  ordinarily  so  amenable  to  suggestion,  had 
on  this  occasion  stiffened  his  back  and  denied  the  request 
of  his  scholars — denied  it,  too,  with  those  bitter,  sarcastic 
words  of  which  he  had  the  secret.  The  girls,  to  whom 
ploughing  matches  were  naught,  had  laughed  specially  at 
the  discomfiture  of  Sandy  Ewan,  the  son  of  the  big  farmer 
of  the  Boreland  of  Kirkanders,  who  rode  over  every 
morning  on  his  own  pony  to  be  taught  surveying  and 
mensuration  by  the  all-accomplished  Dominie  of  Lowran. 

So  it  was  small  wonder  that  these  strong-thewed  Lords 


4  STRONG  MAC 

of  the  Congregation  on  the  male  side  were  in  a  state  of 
open  revolt.  Their  ostensible  leader  was  Muckle  Sandy 
Ewan,  a  great,  raw-boned,  horse- faced  youth,  with  pale 
eyes  that  seemed  "dibbled"  into  his  face,  so  deeply  were 
they  set  between  his  high  cheek-bones  and  the  hairless 
ridges  of  his  eyebrows. 

"If  I  have  any  authority  in  this  school,"  Donald  Gracie 
had  said,  "ye  shall  not  go — no,  not  one  of  you — to  these 
worse  than  Roman  Saturnalia.  For  if  you  disobey,  I 
will  not  only  report  you  to  your  parents,  but  I  will  call 
the  roll  every  hour,  and  the  loss  of  these  six  marks  shall 
be  held  to  disqualify  for  the  competition  in  which  most 
of  the  seniors  are  interested." 

This  was  the  annual  "Laird  of  Lowran  Prize,"  a  local 
foundation  of  the  value  of  ten  pounds  a  year,  sufficient 
with  ordinary  personal  endeavour  to  see  the  winner 
through  a  session  at  college  even  in  these  dear  times. 

The  tumult  began  in  low  murmurings,  which  rumbled 
from  end  to  end  of  the  senior  boys'  benches.  The  girls 
opposite  bent  their  heads  diligently  over  their  copy-books. 
But  the  young  men  knew  that  these  had  eyes  in  the  back 
of  their  heads,  and  that  many  pairs  of  pretty  ears  ached 
with  listening. 

Only  in  the  cross-benches  of  the  school,  where  the 
small  fry  were  huddled,  did  the  work  of  the  school  go  on 
undisturbed.  Donald  Gracie  stalked  hither  and  thither 
as  usual,  his  taws  under  his  arm.  A  stout  ash-plant, 
emblem  of  authority,  hung  on  a  couple  of  pins  above  his 
desk,  as  a  court  of  final  appeal. 

The  Dominie  of  Lowran  was  a  tall  man,  with  weakish, 
watery  eyes  perpetually  blinking,  well-formed  features, 
a  broad  white  brow,  hair  wearing  a  little  thin  on  top  and 
falling  grey  and  soft  on  the  rolling  collar  of  his  blue  coat. 
He  took  snuff  constantly  with  a  shaking  hand  and  a  cer- 
tain air  of  the  fallen  angel,  mingled  with  a  sweet  and 
pathetic  dignity  that  told  of  a  spirit  within  which,  though 
it  might  sin,  delighted  not  in  iniquity  nor  walked  willingly 
in  the  way  of  sinners.  In  short,  Donald  Gracie  was  that 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  5 

particularly  hopeless  thing,  a  secret  drinker.  Once  on 
a  time,  long  ago,  he  had  been  a  minister.  He  was  one 
no  longer.  The  past  had  shut  down  upon  that,  but  ten 
years  ago  certain  old  friends  of  his,  moving  influentially 
in  high  places,  had  obtained  for  him  the  dominieship  of 
the  parish  of  Lowran.  And  as  year  by  year  he  sent 
bursars  and  college  prizemen  from  little  hill-girt  Lowran 
to  the  universities,  his  fame  waxed  greater  in  the  land. 
And  this  though  the  shadow  also  grew  upon  his  face — 
"tavert"  was  what  the  people  called  his  aspect  of  Fallen 
Seraph — and  though  every  scholar  in  the  school  had 
watched  through  the  keyhole  in  turn,  and  could  imitate 
the  exact  crook  of  the  elbow  with  which  the  master  con- 
veyed the  little  round-bottomed  bottle  from  his  pocket  to 
his  mouth  when  he  thought  himself  alone  in  the  porch. 

The  noise  grew  and  grew,  echoing  from  end  to  end  of 
the  bench  which  looked  toward  the  wood.  Iron-shod 
clogs  stuffed  with  straw  in  many  barns  and  great  hob- 
nailed boots  began  to  clack  and  beat  a  sort  of  rhythmic 
march — tramp,  tramp — tramp-a-tramp !  Thus,  with  a 
halt  between,  and  all  over  again. 

The  Dominie's  weak  face  grew  slowly  purple,  and  then 
paled  again  so  white  that  the  weak,  reddish  eyes  seemed 
injected,  and  the  nails  of  the  shaking  fingers  were  driven 
into  the  palm.  Thrice  he  mounted  the  desk  and  strove  to 
quell  the  turmoil. 

"Tramp,  tramp — tramp-a-tramp  I" 

Then  the  sudden,  quick-flaming  anger  of  a  weak  man 
came  upon  the  Dominie.  He  reached  up  his  hand  and 
lifted  the  ash-plant  off  the  wooden  pegs  where  it  lay 
above  his  head.  The  watching  school  hushed  itself  with 
a  sobbing  intake  of  breath.  There  was  a  great  silence. 
The  bench  of  girls  lifted  itself  with  one  movement,  and 
where  had  been  only  ribbands,  snoods  of  blue  and  black, 
long  plaited  braids,  plaits  and  knots  of  hair,  or  loose- 
flowing  tresses,  row  upon  row  of  eager  white  faces 
watched  the  Dominie's  movements. 

Donald  Gracie  took  three  strides  to  the  top  of  the 


6  STRONG  MAC 

school  and,  lifting  his  hand  high  above  his  head,  struck 
the  biggest  youth  in  the  school,  Muckle  Sandy  Ewan, 
heavily  across  the  shoulders. 

The  tramp-a-tramp  had  instinctively  stilled  itself  at  his 
approach.  A  certain  respect  for  constituted  authority 
held  those  who  had  grown  up  under  his  hand  in  Lowran. 
But  there  were  three  in  that  row  of  broad-shouldered  lads 
who  were  not  of  the  parish,  and  of  these  the  leader,  both 
by  position  and  personal  prowess,  was  undoubtedly  Sandy 
Ewan. 

As  the  blow  fell  the  school  gasped.  The  next  moment 
Muckle  Sandy  had  risen,  his  great  horse  face  distorted 
with  anger.  He  caught  the  master  by  the  throat, 
wrenched  the  ash-plant  out  of  his  hand  and  threw  him 
backwards. 

Donald  Gracie  fell  heavily  over  a  form  and  lay  motion- 
less and  stunned,  his  flash  of  weak  energy  gone  from  him. 
Biting  his  thick  under  lip  till  the  flat  protruding  teeth 
of  his  upper  jaw  showed  wolfishly,  Muckle  Sandy  stood 
over  the  motionless  black  figure  with  the  ash-plant  in  his 
hand. 

No  one  knows  whether  or  not  he  intended  to  strike 
the  Dominie.  That  question  will  never  be  settled.  For 
just  then  a  tall,  slender  girl,  dusky  of  face  as  a  gipsy,  with 
dark,  flashing  eyes  and  hair  flying  over  her  back,  leaped, 
rather  than  rose,  from  her  seat  at  the  head  of  the  seniors' 
bench  and  was  upon  the  victor  in  a  moment.  She  was 
fifteen  (or,  it  might  be,  sixteen)  years  of  age,  but  gave 
the  observer  that  impression  of  maturity  which  comes  so 
early  in  Galloway  to  dark  girls  of  the  aboriginal  Pictish 
breed. 

Then,  lo!  in  a  moment  all  was  changed.  Before  the 
school  could  breathe,  before  the  Dominie  could  quaver  a 
feeble  protesting  hagyi,  before  Muckle  Sandy  Ewan  had 
time  to  lift  his  weapon,  the  ash-plant  was  wrenched  out 
of  his  hand  and  he  received  a  couple  of  stinging  cuts  with 
the  supple  end  of  it,  one  across  either  side  of  the  horse 
face,  on  the  doughy  cheeks  of  which  presently  appeared 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  7 

two  welts,  red  and  angry,  neatly  paired  like  carriage 
horses,  or  rather  like  the  winning  team  at  the  ploughing 
match,  and  extending  from  the  temple  to  the  angle  of 
the  jaw,  where  the  ridge  faded  into  the  bull  neck. 

Muckle  Sandy  Ewan  vented  his  feelings,  after  the  first 
intolerable  smart  of  surprise,  in  a  "gowl"  of  inarticulate 
wrath.  He  sprang  toward  the  girl,  his  hand  clutching 
to  seize  her.  His  fingers  caught  her  light,  poor  gown. 
It  ripped  under  his  grasp.  The  lace  collar  came  away  in 
his  hand.  It  had  been  pinned  on,  and  now,  the  point  of 
one  of  these  cutting  downward  in  that  rude  clutch,  a  thin 
line  of  red  appeared  upon  the  dusky  tan  of  the  girl's 
neck. 

Muckle  Sandy,  stepping  over  the  Dominie,  pulled  the 
girl  toward  him  and  made  another  snatch  at  the  ash- 
plant — missed  it,  and  for  the  third  time  it  stung  him  vehe- 
mently across  one  ear. 

"Ye  besom !"  he  shouted,  "I'll  fell  ye  dead  for  that !" 

Muckle  Sandy  lifted  up  his  great  fist  and  undoubtedly 
the  next  moment  the  girl  would  have  been  lying  beside  the 
unconscious  Dominie,  had  not  something  happened. 

From  the  lower  end  of  the  bench  a  figure  had  detached 
itself,  lazily  at  first,  certainly  good-humouredly. 

"Strong  Mac!"  chorused  the  school,  breathless  with  ex- 
pectation. 

"Haste  ye,  Strong  Mac !"  cried  a  voice  shrill  and  high, 
that  of  "Deil"  McRobb.  "He  will  kill  the  lassie !  He's 
awfu'  when  he's  angry !  I  ken !" 

But  Strong  Mac  did  nothing  hastily — only  everything 
always  at  the  right  time.  Muckle  Sandy's  hand  was 
already  descending,  when  Strong  Mac  caught  it  from  be- 
hind and  swung  the  assailant  round,  as  a  big  dog  swings 
a  little  one  when  they  are  chained  together.  Muckle 
Sandy  had  the  girl's  white  collar  still  in  his  hand 
as  Strong  Mac  propelled  him  to  the  door,  punted  him 
down  the  playground  in  standing  leaps,  and  at  last  flung 
him  out  on  the  road  down  the  steps,  where  he  lay  looking 
up  at  the  road  he  had  come  in  a.  dazed  way. 


8  STRONG  MAC 

Strong  Mac  stood  over  his  enemy  threateningly. 

"D'ye  want  to  fecht?"  he  demanded. 

"Na,  I  dinna !"  said  Muckle  Sandy  Ewan. 

"Gie  me  that  collar,  then !" 

The  collar  was  delivered  up. 

"Noo  ye  can  gang  to  your  plooin'  match  !"  said  Strong 
Mac,  with  contempt,  and  betook  himself  back  to  the 
school.  He  had  never  held  any  part  of  a  girl's  dress  in 
his  hand  before.  There  was  a  speck  of  red  upon  the 
inside — very  tiny.  Strong  Mac  started  and  flushed, 
though  he  had  seen  blood  often  enough.  But — never 
that.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  kicked  Muckle 
Sandy  Ewan  enough.  He  turned  to  repair  the  omission. 
But  for  the  time  being  the  resolve  came  too  late.  He 
received  a  stone  as  big  as  a  goose  egg  between  the 
shoulder-blades,  hurled  with  excellent  aim,  and  a  mock- 
ing shout  fell  on  his  ear : 

"Poacher — deer-poacher — sheep-stealer !  I'll  see  ye  i' 
the  jail  yet !  My  faither  said  sae !" 

Strong  Mac  smiled.  He  had  heard  such  threats  often 
and  they  moved  him  not.  Roy  McCulloch  had  a  brother 
and  a  father.  More,  he  had  the  side  of  the  Black  Muir, 
which  none  knew  like  himself — caves,  morasses,  forest, 
moss-hags.  He  would  like  to  see  any  one  who  could  catch 
him  there ! 

The  school  was  buzzing  like  a  hive  when  he  entered. 
It  stilled  instinctively  as  his  broad  shoulders  blocked  up 
the  doorway. 

The  girl  was  standing  with  her  face  a  ghastly  white. 
She  had  tried  to  lift  the  Dominie,  but  could  not  manage 
it  alone. 

"Help  me  with  my  father !"  she  said  to  Strong  Mac. 

"Shall  I  send  them  awa'  ?"  he  queried,  indicating  the  as- 
sembled school  with  a  jerk  of  his  head. 

The  expression  of  the  girl's  face  firmed  under  his  eye. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I'll  teach  the  school,  instead  of  my 
father.  And  I'll  call  the  roll  every  hour  as  he  said  he 
would !" 


'YE  BESOM,'  HE  SHOUTED,    'l  FELL  YE  DEAD  FOR  THAT. 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  9 

"Faith,  then  I'll  help  ye,  Dora  Grade !"  said  Strong 
Mac,  setting  his  back  to  the  closed  door  which  led  into 
the  porch.  "Here,  you,  Jamie"  (he  indicated  his  brother), 
an'  you,  Jock  Fairies,  carry  the  maister  ben  to  his  bed. 
Ye  ken  where  to  gang.  Bring  him  to  and  leave  him. 
Dora,  call  the  roll.  I'll  see  fair  play." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   LOWRAN   DOMINIE. 

ADORA,  or  Dora,  Grade  was  "a  manse  bairn."  That 
is,  she  had  been  born  not  in  the  purple,  but  in  the  true  blue 
of  Presbytery,  the  house  of  the  pastor  of  a  flock  of  human 
souls. 

And  so  measuring  the  descent,  we  begin  to  see  whence 
Donald  Gracie  got  his  bearing  of  Fallen  Seraph.  Never- 
theless, no  man  of  that  name  had  during  the  fifty  years 
before  this  year  of  grace  1812  been  a  placed  minister  in 
the  Kirk  of  Scotland.  Yet  this  the  Dominie  of  Lowran 
had  been — and  also  in  his  day  the  citizen  of  no  mean  city. 

Time  was  when,  with  the  highest  hopes,  a  certain 
younger  son  of  the  Laird  of  Balgracie  (Balgracie  of  that 
ilk)  had  been  licensed  to  preach  the  Word.  It  seemed 
throughout  all  the  Lothians  nothing  less  than  a  conde- 
scension, and  religion  itself  rose  in  general  estimation 
when  young  Donald  Balgracie  preached  his  first  sermon. 
So  handsome  he  was,  too,  so  certain  of  the  highest  pre- 
ferment, that  his  words  came  home  with  tenfold  force  to 
mothers  of  marriageable  daughters.  These  on  their  own 
account  found  him  "interesting,"  though  how  he  could 
want  to  be  a  minister,  when  he  might  have  arrayed  himself 
in  scarlet  and  gone  to  the  wars,  was  a  mystery  to  them. 

Balgracie  of  Balgracie  was  of  an  ancient  family,  some- 
what sunk  for  a  generation  or  two,  but  again  restored  to 
more  than  its  former  glories  by  that  notable  Virginia 
tobacco  lord,  Archibald  Balgracie,  who  in  1789  succeeded 
his  childless  elder  brother  in  the  family  estates,  and  who 
had  used  his  great  fortune  (brought  from  the  plantations) 


THE  LOWRAN  DOMINIE  n 

in  buying  back  and  adding  to  the  former  possessions  of 
the  Balgracies.  He  built  himself  a  new  mansion-house, 
and  entertained  in  a  manner  which  was  the  admiration  or 
the  envy,  the  heart-breaking  or  the  pride,  of  the  three 
Lothians,  according  as  the  inhabitants  went  abroad  to 
boast  or  remained  at  home  to  sneer. 

The  eldest  son  of  the  "tobacco  lord"  had  succeeded 
to  the  business  in  Glasgow,  as  he  was  in  time  to  succeed  to 
the  family  estates.  Donald  the  younger  was,  however, 
the  general  favourite,  and  owing  to  the  frequent  absences 
of  his  father  and  elder  brother,  it  was  his  ill-fortune  to  be 
reared  at  home  by  a  triumvirate  of  aunts.  These  were 
the  sisters  of  his  father — women  who  remembered  the 
former  things,  the  poverty,  the  scanting  and  scrimping, 
the  one  lean  serving-man  in  the  tightly  buttoned  coat,  his 
hands  grimed  with  the  clods  of  the  garden,  smelling  of 
the  stable,  who  had  waited  at  table  and  lectured  ,hem 
upon  their  extravagant  ways  till  the  day  when  their 
brother  Archibald  came  home  from  the  plantations  a  wid- 
ower, with  a  boy  of  fifteen,  a  babe  of  seven  months,  and  a 
great  fortune. 

Girzie,  Isbel  and  Adora  Balgracie  were  variously 
known  in  the  neighbourhood  as  the  Three  Graces,  the 
Three  Muses,  the  Three  Fates,  or  the  Three  Furies,  ac- 
cording to  the  humour  of  the  speaker.  In  their  youths 
the  Balgracies  had  been  tall,  slender  girls,  and,  not  with- 
out reason,  had  thought  well  of  themselves.  That  was  the 
hour  when,  without  bitterness  and  with  no  back-spang 
of  sarcasm,  they  had  been  called  in  easy  assonance  the 
Three  Graces  of  Balgracie.  A  little  later  they  took  to 
writing  verses.  Tender  they  were  and  very  sentimental, 
conceived  in  the  stiff  rhyme  royal  of  the  period.  You 
may  stumble  across  some  of  them  still  in  the  later  num- 
bers of  the  Scots  Magazine  when  you  are  searching  that 
delectable  chronicle  for  Gretna  Green  marriages,  won- 
derful providences,  parish  gossip,  and  early  tidings  of 
the  death  of  kings. 

They  are  signed  "Griselda,"  "Isabella,"  or  "Adora,"  in 


12  STRONG  MAC 

turns.  For  the  work  of  the  Muses  of  Balgracie  was  a 
strict  collaboration.  Adora,  the  youngest,  wrote  the 
verses,  humming  the  lines  to  herself  as  she  went  about  her 
daily  work,  crooning  them  over  to  the  whirl  of  the  spin- 
ning-wheel and  the  twirl  of  the  distaff.  Then  precise 
Isabella  corrected  and  pruned  the  expressions — sucked 
out  the  sap,  as  it  were — while  last  of  all,  practical  Griselda 
copied  them  in  a  clear,  running  hand  and  did  the  cor- 
respondence with  the  editor  in  Edinburgh. 

As  for  their  other  two  nicknames,  both  those  who  called 
them  the  Three  Fates  of  Balgracie  (because  they  were 
nobody's  fate)  and  those  who  in  their  days  of  the  sere 
leaf  spoke  of  them  as  the  Furies  knew  as  little  of  their 
kind  hearts  and  unselfish  lives  as  they  did  of  the  classics. 

Yet  had  they  been  the  most  fateful  of  Furies,  they  could 
hardly  have  done  worse  by  Donald  Balgracie.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  neglect  of  his  father,  the  years  which 
divided  him  from  his  elder  brother,  and  above  all,  the 
ceaseless  spoiling  Donald  Balgracie  received  from  his 
three  maiden  aunts,  were  responsible,  in  part  at  least,  for 
his  downfall.  After  having  been  educated  at  home  by  an 
indulgent  tutor,  then  sent  to  college  with  much  money 
at  his  disposal,  returning  to  Balgracie  each  summer  to 
lord  it  over  the  heritage  of  his  brother  (already  up  to  his 
ears  in  business  in  Glasgow),  Donald  found  himself  sud- 
denly minister  of  a  rich  but  lonely  parish  lying  at  the  back 
of  the  Pentlands. 

With  great  promptness  he  provided  against  the  lone- 
liness by  marrying  his  late  landlady's  daughter,  a  sweet 
and  simple  girl,  with  the  Edinburgh  roses  a-bloom  on  her 
cheeks. 

But  his  father  was  mortally  offended,  with  the  offence 
of  a  man  who  has  taken  it  for  granted  that  all  will  go  as 
he  wishes  it  without  his  needing  to  stir  one  of  his  little 
fingers.  From  that  time  forth  all  Archibald  Balgracie's 
pride  and  hope  was  centred  in  his  elder  son,  whom  he 
loved  to  see  acting  his  part  on  the  crowded  mart,  counter- 


THE  LOWRAN  DOMINIE  13 

ing  with  inherited  shrewdness  the  changing  wants  and 
devices  of  customers. 

But  Donald — had  he  not  given  him  a  good  education 
and  all  his  own  way  ?  Had  he  not  piloted  him  by  influence 
into  a  respectable  and  lucrative  position?  And  now,  to 
please  himself,  he  must  needs  marry  a  beggar !  Well,  let 
him  please  himself  and  see  what  would  come  of  it. 

So  Donald,  that  is  to  say,  the  Reverend  Donald  Bal- 
gracie  of  the  parish  of  Maxtone  Easter,  went  his  way  apart 
from  his  father.  The  triumvirate  of  aunts,  Griselda,  Isa- 
bella and  Adora,  were  forbidden  to  hold  communication 
with  him — even  to  think  of  him.  And  as  for  his  brother 
William  in  Glasgow,  he  had  no  desire  to  do  either. 

All  might  have  gone  well,  however,  with  the  household 
in  the  Manse  of  Maxtone  Easter  if  the  life  of  the  young 
wife  had  been  spared.  In  his  dreams  Donald  Balgracie 
often  found  himself  sitting  in  the  twilight  with  Lucy,  his 
wife,  holding  her  hand  and  speaking  low  of  that  which 
God  was  sending  to  them. 

But  when,  a  few  months  later,  Donald  Balgracie  sat 
alone  in  a  wide  house  with  a  week-old  infant  wailing 
overhead  in  the  arms  of  the  hired  nurse,  what  wonder  is 
it  that  the  man's  heart  sank  within  him?  His  was  no 
strong  nature.  He  had  never  been  taught  self-control. 
And  so — and  so — as  the  long  winter  passed  draggingly, 
endlessly,  there  came  a  change,  noted  of  the  people,  over 
their  young  minister.  At  first,  with  unusual  charity,  it  had 
been  set  down  to  grief  for  his  wife,  but  after,  the  mat- 
ter became  all  too  plain,  then  clamant,  then  scandalous. 
The  Presbytery,  always  a  little  hostile,  took  the  matter  in 
hand.  Sons  of  the  people  themselves,  they  resented  the 
scions  of  rich  families  entering  into  the  best  heritages  of 
the  Kirk.  On  the  other  hand,  the  people  of  Maxtone, 
all  but  one  or  two,  stood  by  their  minister. 

"He  is  young — he  will  mend/'  they  said.  "Grief  hath 
made  him  mad !  And  moreover,"  they  added,  "what  bet- 
ter are  you  his  judges — you,  moderator,  with  your  roister- 


14  STRONG  MAC 

ous  Market  Mondays  ?  you,  clerk  of  the  Presbytery,  with 
your  unhallowed  card  parties  ?  Answer  us  that." 

But  moderator  and  clerk  answered  not.  They  took  ac- 
tion instead.  And  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine  Donald  Bal- 
gracie  found  himself  a  man  outcast,  degraded,  unfrocked, 
without  means  and  with  a  little  daughter  to  support.  His 
father's  sole  anxiety  was  that  his  son  should  vanish  for- 
ever out  of  his  ken.  He  offered  to  send  him  to  the 
plantations,  where  he  still  had  important  interests,  telling 
him  frankly  that  if  he  lived,  he  might  consider  himself 
leniently  dealt  with,  and  if  he  died  in  the  tobacco  fields — 
why,  so  much  the  better  for  all  concerned. 

As  for  his  three  aunts,  they  only  grieved  and  prayed 
in  secret,  and  at  last  gained  a  reluctant  consent  from  their 
brother  that  if  Donald  would  give  up  the  babe,  they  might 
have  the  bringing  of  her  up. 

"And  see  that  ye  make  a  better  job  of  the  lass  than  ye 
made  of  the  lad !"  Archibald  Balgracie  had  added  grimly 
as  he  went  out. 

But  Donald  would  in  nowise  consent  to  be  parted  from 
his  little  Adora.  As  to  that,  at  least,  he  was  adamant. 
And  so,  with  influence  made  through  one  of  his  old  col- 
lege professors,  the  unfrocked  minister  became  a  parish 
schoolmaster  in  far-off  Galloway.  Donald  Balgracie  be- 
came Donald  Gracie,  and  Adora  his  daughter  grew  up  to 
be  the  sweetest  and  winsomest  little  maid  that  ever  trod 
down  the  daisies  in  the  Lowran  fields. 

Sole  of  all  the  parish  the  Dominie's  story  was  known 
to  Dr.  Cyrus  Meiklewham,  the  minister.  For  so  the  pro- 
fessor judged  right. 

"At  least  it  shall  not  leap  out  upon  him  like  a  lion  from 
a  bush!"  he  had  said.  And  Dr.  Cyrus  Meiklewham, 
though  not  clever,  proved  a  dungeon  of  silent  discretion. 

For  long  after  this  downfall  Donald  Gracie  walked  be- 
fore men  irreproachable.  True,  the  shadow  did  not 
wholly  depart  from  his  face.  The  "fallen  seraph"  look 
remained — nay,  perhaps  grew  more  pathetic.  The  folk 
whispered  and  smiled,  but  it  was  tolerantly.  For  much 


THE  LOWRAN  DOMINIE  15 

is  forgiven  in  Galloway  to  one  with  the  name  of  a  great 
scholar.  The  Dominie's  Latin  was  without  equal.  "And 
what  the  worse  is  he  of  a  human  failing  or  twa — 
like  yours  and  mine?  And  maybe,  gin  a'  were  kenned" 
(so  ran  the  shrewd  comment),  "there  may  be  others  in 
the  parish  quite  unfit  to  cast  the  first  stane  at  the  Domi- 
nie." 

So  there  was  no  open  scandal,  nothing  indeed  at  all 
like  it,  for  many  years.  Nevertheless,  Donald  Gracie  was 
already  an  old  man  at  forty-three,  and  his  daughter  Dora 
had  the  shadow  of  a  shadow  upon  her  young  face.  The 
moist  eye,  the  slack  lip,  the  flushed  face,  the  trembling 
hand,  all  told  the  same  tale.  The  demon  who  had  put  out 
his  head  at  Maxtone  Easter  was  not  exorcised.  Nor,  per- 
haps, could  be  by  any  power  of  man. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HOW   ADORA   GRACIE   KEPT   SCHOOL. 

"GANG  ye  ben  and  attend  to  your  faither,"  said  Strong 
Mac  to  Adora,  when  his  brother  James  and  his  compan- 
ion came  back  from  laying  the  master  on  his  bed.  "I'll 
see  to  it  that  the  schule  is  in  fine  fettle  for  the  learnin' 
when  ye  come  back." 

Adora  sped  upon  her  errand  through  the  door  which 
connected  the  schoolroom  with  the  master's  house.  Then, 
with  his  back  still  against  the  porch  entrance,  Roy  McCul- 
loch  lazily  propounded  his  scholastic  philosophy. 

"Ye  see,"  said  he  confidentially  to  the  assembled  schol- 
ars, "there's  you  and  here's  me — and  in  yonder's  the  las- 
sie! There's  the  lassie  to  gie  ye  your  lessons.  (And  she 
can  do  it  as  weel  as  her  faither !)  There's  you  that's  gaun 
to  learn  them,  and  there's  me  to  see  that  they  are  learnt. 
Hae  ye  a'  gotten  haud  o'  that  ?" 

He  turned  to  the  bench  of  the  young  men,  the  some- 
time haughty  Lords  of  the  Lowran  Congregation.  Few 
of  them  were  looking  at  him.  Most  regarded  their  copy- 
books with  an  absolute  attention.  Some  figured  dili- 
gently. 

"It's  to  you  I'm  speakin'  maistly !"  he  went  on.  "Lads, 
listen  to  me.  If  there's  ony  three  o'  ye  that  are  o'  opinion 
that  I  canna  break  their  backs  at  yae  time,  stand  oot  here 
and  hae  it  ower  afore  the  lassie  comes  back.  For  if 
there's  as  muckle  as  a  word  or  a  black  look  frae  ye  after 
that — weel,  ye  ken  me.  Somebody  will  maybe  get  hurt !" 

No  one  moved.  The  attention  to  work  was  absolute. 
Nothing  like  it  had  been  in  Donald  Gracie's  time. 


HOW  ADORA  GRACIE  KEPT  SCHOOL   17 

Still  more  lazily  Strong  Mac  stretched  himself  in  his 
ruddy  homespun  clothes,  and  the  blue  rig-and-fur  stock- 
ings banded  with  strips  of  brown  leather  at  the  knee.  His 
brother  Jamie  looked  across  at  him  and  winked. 

"To  your  books !"  said  Roy  McCulloch  to  his  brother, 
with  a  threatening  gesture.  And  the  whole  bench  of  the 
girls  regarded  him  with  admiration. 

"And  a'  that  for  the  sake  of  a  dominie's  lass!"  whis- 
pered Charlotte  Webster,  who  was  eighteen,  and  had  had 
two  lads  come  wanting  to  carry  her  books  on  the  same 
night,  which  was  considered  a  great  honour  in  the  school. 

"Oh,  he  just  does  it  to  show  aff !"  said  little  Kate  Han- 
nay,  "because  he's  strong.  Lads  are  like  that.  I  dare- 
say he  wad  do  as  muckle  for  you." 

Charlotte  Webster,  a  peach-blossom  blonde,  sniffed  con- 
temptuously. 

"Huh !"  she  said,  wrinkling  her  nose,  "it  will  be  a  lang 
day  and  a  short  yin  afore  either  Roy  McCulloch  or  the 
like  o'  him  gets  the  chance.  I  wad  like  to  see  him  dare 
to  speak  to  me.  His  faither  is  nae  better  than — " 

"Less  talking  there!"  said  Strong  Mac  calmly,  look- 
ing directly  at  the  place  on  the  girls'  bench  where  sat  the 
disdainful  blonde.  Charlotte  Webster  bridled  and  tossed 
her  head. 

"Aye,  Chairlie,  it's  to  you  I'm  speakin'  noo !" 

The  girl  turned  upon  him. 

"Keep  yoursel'  to  yoursel',"  she  said.  "I'm  no  'feared 
o'  ye.  Ye  canna  lift  your  hand  to  a  lassie — you  wi'  your 
talk  o'  breakin'  backs  and  showin'  aff !" 

Strong  Mac  was  not  in  the  least  put  out  by  this  direct 
defiance.  He  did  not  take  his  back  from  the  school  door. 
He  only  lazily  crossed  one  foot  over  the  other  and  re- 
garded the  square  points  of  his  huge  boots. 

"Na,"  he  answered  slowly,  "I  canna.  That's  true.  But 
maybe  ye  wad  want  me  to  tell  the  schule  wha  carried  the 
last  luggie  into  the  milk-house  for  ye  on  Saturday  nicht 
— and  wha — ?" 

But  with  a  quick  rising  flush  and  a  single  swift  appeal- 


i8  STRONG  MAC 

ing  look,  the  blonde  turned  away  and  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  copy-book. 

The  school  tittered.  It  knew  Charlotte  Webster.  In 
a  far  corner  somebody  gasped  and  choked  with  suppressed 
laughter. 

"Deil  McRobb,  that's  you,"  said  Strong  Mac,  "that's 
you.  I  ken  yer  sniffle !  Come  here,  Deil !" 

The  Deil  approached,  trembling  in  spite  of  his  formida- 
ble cognomen. 

"It  wasna  me,"  he  declared.  "Look — I'm  laughin' 
nane !" 

The  dictator  of  Lowran  school  lifted  an  ink  bottle  from 
the  master's  desk. 

"Drink  the  ink !"  he  commanded. 

The  Deil  did  so  without  the  least  compunction. 

Then  from  his  own  class  there  arose  first  a  whispering, 
then  a  laugh. 

"If  ye  please,  Strong  Mac,"  said  a  piping  voice,  "he 
likes  it.  He  aye  drinks  a'  the  ink,  and  we  get  pawmies 
for  it  frae  the  Dominie !" 

The  Deil,  licking  his  lips,  turned  toward  his  peers  with 
an  expression  which  said  clearly,  "Wait,  my  bonnies,  till 
I  get  ye  oot !" 

"Weel,  than''  said  Strong  Mac,  "gang  an'  learn  your 
lesson  standing  on  your  head.  That  will  keep  ye  quaite, 
surely,  Deil?" 

He  erected  the  Deil  with  the  soles  of  his  feet  against 
a  convenient  wall,  arranged  his  spelling-book  to  suit  these 
unusual  conditions  of  study,  and  left  him  to  his  medita- 
tions. 

At  this  moment  Adora  Gracie  came  in.  She  found  the 
school  hushed  in  studious  calm.  Strong  Mac  stood  on 
guard  at  the  door  as  she  had  left  him.  She  nodded,  as 
much  as  to  say  that  her  father  was  in  the  fair  way  of  re- 
covery. 

"Have  they  been  a  trouble  to  you  ?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
tone  of  Roy  McCulloch. 

He  shook  his  head  almost  sadly. 


HOW  ADORA  GRACIE  KEPT  SCHOOL      19 

"Never  a  whush  oot  o'  the  head  o'  ony  craitur  amang 
them!"  he  said.  "What  class  will  ye  tak'  first?  The 
Muckle  Laitin?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Adora,  quietly.  She  went  to  her 
father's  desk,  opened  it  and  got  out  the  version  books  and 
a  Vergil,  well  thumbed  and  with  many  notes  scribbled 
on  the  margin. 

Strong  Mac  announced  in  a  stentorian  voice  which 
made  the  sparrows  and  robins  picking  up  the  crumbs  from 
the  dinner-pokes  outside  fly  off  in  a  flurry : 

"Muckle  Laitin,  stand  to  the  chalk  line !" 

This  announcement  disarranged  the  bench  occupied  by 
the  Lords  of  the  Congregation.  For  a  long  moment  they 
hesitated.  Then  slowly  and  reluctantly,  one  after  an- 
other, disengaged  themselves,  as  if  weighing  alternatives. 
Groups  of  two  or  three  whispered  together  in  clusters. 

"Keep  your  heads  sindry  a  wee  farther/'  crhd  the 
watchful  Mac,  "or  maybe  I'll  bring  them  thegither  raither 
sharper  than  ye  bargain  for !" 

Automatically  the  class  formed  itself,  complete  save  for 
one  place  at  the  bottom,  which  ought  to  have  been  filled  by 
Sandy  Ewan,  expelled  for  cause.  Before  Strong  Mac 
himself  took  this  vacant  place  he  solemnly  reached  down 
the  ash-plant,  which  had  been  replaced  on  the  pegs  above 
the  desk. 

"Noo,  lads,  fair  hornie,"  he  cried,  "ye  ken  the  rules. 
Yae  palmie  for  a  'minie,'  twa  for  a  'majie'  an'  three  for 
a  'maxie' !  And  the  Lord  help  me,"  he  added,  "for  I  ken 
no  a  word  o'  the  lesson  this  day.  I  declare,  it's  gane  clear 
oot  o'  my  thick  heid !" 

At  this  announcement  of  pains  and  penalties  an  ominous 
muttering  made  itself  apparent,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Strong  Mac  heard  the  words,  "We  will  no  tak'  our  licks 
frae  a  lassie !" 

"Weel,"  said  Strong  Mac,  "that's  reasonable.  But  hear 
ye  me,  EC  McKimmon — gin  ye  willna  tak'  your  palmies 
frae  a  lassie,  ye  shall  tak'  them  frae  me.  Ye  can  hae  your 
choice,  my  man !  Drive  on,  Dora !" 


20  STRONG  MAC 

Adora  Gracie  was  by  far  the  best  scholar  in  the  school. 
That  went  without  saying.  Two  years  ago,  when  she  was 
no  more  than  thirteen,  she  had  been  at  the  head  in  every 
subject  at  the  annual  examination  by  the  Presbytery. 
Now,  she  had  been  for  two  more  years  her  father's  com- 
panion in  his  reading.  He  talked  to  her  in  all  their  walks 
together.  In  the  winter  evenings  they  studied  together. 
Moreover,  there  was  not  within  the  Lowran  school  young 
man  or  maid  who  would  have  dreamed  of  disputing  that 
preeminence. 

But  to  "tak'  it  frae  a  lassie !"  That  was  strong  meat, 
indeed. 

However,  it  was  Dora's  arm  executive  (as  it  were), 
even  Strong  Mac  himself  who  first  stumbled — perhaps  in- 
tentionally and  to  encourage  the  others.  At  any  rate,  it 
was  an  undoubted  "maxie,"  the  largest  kind  of  error  pos- 
sible, and  good,  upon  the  face  of  it,  or  rather  upon  the 
palm  of  it,  for  three  stripes. 

He  stepped  forward,  ostentatiously  drawing  down  his 
cuff. 

"Noo,  Dora,"  he  said,  encouragingly,  "lay  on  as  if  ye 
were  beating  carpets !  Gar  the  stour  flee !" 

And  Adora  Gracie,  who  quite  understood  the  impor- 
tance of  the  occasion,  put  some  pith  into  the  operation. 

"Harder!"  whispered  Strong  Mac  under  his  breath. 

Whereupon  Adora  put  a  little  of  her  agitation  into  the 
last  two  strokes  of  the  "maxie,"  so  that  the  yelp  which 
Strong  Mac  emitted  had  at  least  so  convincing  a  natural- 
ness that  the  junior  benches  squeaked  in  sympathy. 

After  that  it  was  easier.  Jock  Fairies  misquoted  a 
Latin  rule  in  his  parsing  and  received  a  "majie,"  which, 
as  he  said  proudly,  "left  him  wi'  something  to  think 
aboot."  Daid  the  Deil  giggled  audibly  thereat,  and  was 
pounced  upon  for  disturbing  the  school.  He  came  for- 
ward smiling  at  what  he  was  about  to  receive.  What  he 
did  carry  away  with  him  changed  the  fashion  of  his  coun- 
tenance. He  returned  to  his  place  with  his  mouth  the 


HOW  ADORA  GRACIE  KEPT  SCHOOL      21 

shape  of  an  O,  softly  rubbing  his  palm  upon  the  part  of 
his  body,  used  by  schoolboys  as  an  emollient. 

Only  EC  McKimmon,  a  sturdy  youth  from  the  borders 
of  the  parish,  and  supposed  to  be  a  partisan  of  the  ex- 
pelled Muckle  Sandy,  looked  for  a  moment  like  refusing 
chastisement.  But  Adora  was  firm.  Never  had  the  sen- 
ior Latinists  seen  so  strict  a  master. 

"Stand  out,  EC  McKimmon!"  she  said.  "That  was  a 
'maxie'." 

He  hesitated,  growling  low.    Adora  stamped  her  foot. 

"Here,  Dora,"  cried  Strong  Mac,  "gie  me  haud  o'  the 
ash-plant !" 

Thus  was  rebellion  stamped  out  in  Lowran  school  and 
the  faces  of  the  law-abiding  exalted.  At  the  close  of  the 
lesson  the  class  returned  to  its  several  places  and  relations 
upon  the  benches  on  the  "wood"  side  of  the  school. 

Adora  had,  in  more  senses  than  one,  made  her  mark. 
The  classes  which  followed  were  child's  play  to  the 
"Muckle  Laitin." 

But  now  the  noon  recess  approached  and  the 
faces  of  the  scholars  brightened  with  expectation.  What 
would  happen  then?  A  low  whispering  began  to  pass 
from  bench  to  bench,  which  Strong  Mac  felt  must  be  re- 
pressed. He  rose  presently  and  went  up  to  the  desk 
where  Adora  Gracie  was  looking  over  copy-books  in  a 
business-like  way,  marking  them  according  to  her  father's 
system,  with  the  degree  of  credit  attaching  to  the  neatness 
and  blotlessness  of  each.  As  Roy  McCulloch  approached 
and  saluted,  Adora  flashed  a  swift  blue  "M"  across  his 
own  page.  It  meant  "Moderate,"  and  involved  staying 
in  at  night  for  half  an  hour  to  write  another.  Strong  Mac 
chuckled. 

"She's  comin'  on  fine,"  he  said  to  himself.  "By  my 
faith,  this  schule  will  find  itsel'  teached  afore  we  hae  dune 
wi'  it — her  an'  me !" 

Adora  looked  up  from  her  work  with  a  cold  and  edu- 
cational eye. 


22  STRONG  MAC 

"Well,  McCulloch  ?"  she  said,  severely. 

"If  ye  please,  maister,"  he  replied,  "it's  time  for  the 
schule  to  be  lettin'  oot." 

But  under  his  breath  he  added,  covered  by  the  whis- 
pered storm  which  his  remark  created,  "Make  me  a  mon- 
itor, quick,  and  gang  oot  to  see  your  faither.  I  want  to 
speak  to  them" 

"Very  well,  McCulloch,"  she  said,  following  his  lead. 
"Go  to  your  seat !" 

The  murmur  hushed  as  Adora  tapped  the  desk.  She 
rose,  gathered  up  her  papers,  read  out  the  marks,  and  de- 
livered the  copy-books  with  comments  complimentary  or 
the  reverse.  Then  she  locked  the  master's  desk  with  her 
father's  snap  of  the  lid. 

"I  am  going  out  for  a  moment.  See  that  there  is  good 
behaviour.  Roy  McCulloch,  I  name  you  monitor"  (she 
hesitated  a  moment  before  achieving  her  phrase  be- 
tween "without  prejudice"  and  "with  powers,"  deciding 
on  the  latter) — "monitor  with  powers!"  she  added,  em- 
phatically. 

Strong  Mac  rose  lazily  as  the  girl  passed  out  by  the 
private  door. 

"  'With  powers,'  "  he  said.  "Ye  ken  what  that  means. 
Noo,  I  hae  a  word.  It's  this  :  Ye  are  to  come  back  in  the 
afternoon.  For  ony  boy  that  gangs  to  the  plooin'  match, 
six — ffae  me !  For  ony  lassie  that  collogues  wi'  that  brute 
Muckle  Sandy  Ewan — we'll  no'  let  her  in,  no'  though  she 
greets!  And  hark  ye,  cronies,"  he  continued,  suddenly 
dropping  his  monitorial  manner,  "the  less  said  aboot  this 
at  hame  the  better.  If  we  canna  gar  Lowran  schule  gang 
on  as  it  should  without  the  help  o'  Kirkanders  and  Sandy 
Ewan,  it's  a  peety !" 

With  this  final  appeal  to  the  fears  of  the  boys,  to  the 
curiosity  of  Eve's  sex  and  to  the  patriotism  of  both,  the 
temporary  "monitor"  dismissed  the  school. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  PLOUGHING  MATCH. 

THE  ploughing  match  between  the  parish  of  Lowran 
and  that  of  Kirkanders  was  a  most  important  fixture.  It 
was  looked  forward  to  with  the  greatest  anxiety  on  the 
part  of  both  antagonists.  The  judges  were  selected  from 
the  surrounding  parishes,  mainly  from  the  Dullarg,  Min- 
nibole  and  Stonybyres. 

On  this  occasion  two  of  these  were  burly  tenant  farmers. 
Joined  with  them  was  a  sporting  laird  on  his  promotion 
as  Deputy  Lieutenant,  with  the  probable  reversion  of  the 
county  seat  in  Parliament  when  the  present  (aged)  occu- 
pant retired.  The  three  judges  walked  about  through  the 
soft,  droppy  mist  circled  with  visible  haloes.  Pride  was 
in  their  port,  a  flush  on  their  cheeks : 

"The  half  of  whilk  was  pride  o'  place, 
The  ither  half  was  malt!" 

Which  last  was  in  no  way  surprising.  For  at  the  great 
ploughing  match  (which  was  held  alternately  upon  the 
farm  of  Holm,  as  the  nearest  to  the  village,  and  upon  the 
Kirkanders  farm  of  Boreland,  tenanted  by  the  father  of 
Muckle  Sandy)  it  was  expected  of  the  tenant  whose  field 
was  ploughed  that  he  should  provide  the  most  copious 
refreshments.  It  was  partly  to  keep  his  son  out  of  the 
way  of  this  that  Fairies  Senior  had  insisted  upon  Jock 
going  to  school  as  usual.  And  it  was  certainly  a  most 
self-denying  respect  for  the  fifth  commandment  which, 
after  considerable  debate  with  himself,  led  Jock  on  this 
occasion  to  obey  his  father. 

To  go  was  one  thing,  however;  to  return  at  the  hour 


24  STRONG  MAC 

of  noon  another.  On  his  way  home  he  had  to  pass  the 
field.  He  was  yet  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off  when  an 
odour  of  whiskey  came  to  him  down  wind.  Jock  halted 
and  sniffed  knowingly. 

"Umm!"  he  said,  meditatively.  "I'se  wager  that 
there's  some  gye  queer  plooin'  on  the  Benty  Rigs  this  day. 
That's  Lucky  Greentree's  barley  broo,  as  I'm  a  leevin' 
sinner !  I  wad  ken  the  smell  o't  in — heeven !" 

As  Jock  Fairies  drew  near  the  field,  his  heart  began 
to  beat.  He  counted  himself  no  mean  ploughman,  though 
being  his  father's  son  and  the  heir  to  one  of  the  largest 
"nest-eggs"  in  the  parish,  it  did  not  become  him  to  show 
his  powers  in  an  open  competition.  Yet  since  scenes 
of  excitement  are  rare  in  a  country  district,  it  was  all  the 
harder  upon  the  heir  of  Fairies  of  Holm  to  be  obliged  to 
view  the  scene  from  the  other  side  of  the  dyke. 

The  Benty  Rigs  was  a  field  which  had  been  chosen  for 
the  varying,  yet  equable,  conditions  which  it  offered  to  the 
competitors.  It  was  generally  level,  but  rose  into  a  whale- 
back  in  the  middle,  with  a  steep  descent  which  necessi- 
tated the  use  of  guide  posts  along  the  ridge  as  the  teams 
went  and  came. 

The  "opening"  of  the  furrow  was  in  a  light,  sandy  soil 
near  the  dykeside,  where  the  Holm  Burn  comes  down  to 
join  Lowran  Water.  The  "turning"  had  to  be  accom- 
plished more  critically  in  soft,  boggy  soil,  half  clay,  half 
black  peat — on  the  edge  of  the  rush-covered  morass  which 
had  given  to  the  original  field  its  name  of  the  Benty  Rigs. 

Small  wonder,  then,  that  it  was  a  sigh  long  and  deep 
which  Jock  Fairies  sighed  when  he  came  in  full  sight  of 
the  labouring  teams,  twenty  of  them,  some  taking  the  slope 
of  the  ridge,  some  slowly  dipping  behind  it,  others  turn- 
ing into  a  new  furrow  with  smacking  undulations  of  the 
reins  and  cries  of  encouragement  to  the  horses. 

The  steam  rose  in  clouds  from  the  work-warmed  ani- 
mals into  the  moist  air.  The  teams  took  the  shoulder 
of  the  ridge  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  it.  Pillars  of  cloud 
rose  visibly  from  beyond  the  crest  of  the  hill,  marking  the 


THE   PLOUGHING  MATCH  25 

positions  of  those  which  were  out  of  sight.  Wherever 
you  could  get  away  from  the  pervasive  odour  of  Lucky 
Greentrees'  whiskey,  the  dank,  pointless,  "back-end"  air 
smelt  like  washing  day. 

But  the  keenness  of  men  and  horses  alike !  No  haste, 
however ;  matters  were  far  too  serious  for  that.  The  eyes 
of  all  their  world  were  upon  each.  They  behooved  to  be 
wary,  ready,  resourceful,  dashing,  cautious  all  at  once, 
these  pilots  of  the  dry  land,  these  dauntless  navigators  of 
the  red-streaming  furrow. 

There  they  go — and,  indeed,  you  would  have  sympa- 
thised with  our  stalwart  Peri  at  Paradise  Gate  had  you 
seen  the  show  as  Jock  Fairies  did  from  the  far  side  of 
the  dyke,  barriered  off  by  the  tables  on  which  were  set 
out  the  oat-cake  in  farles  and  the  black  bottles  of  Lucky 
Greentrees'  malten  brew.  That  man  in  the  grey  clothes 
and  leathern  leggings  was  the  gauger,  or  excise  nan — 
the  successor  in  office  of  a  certain  ill-starred  customs  offi- 
cer of  the  name  of  Robert  Burns.  And  he  did  not  need  to 
make  any  professional  examination  to  know  that  Lucky 
Greentrees  had  satisfied  His  Majesty's  dues  on  account 
of  the  beverage  at  present  supplied.  No  self-respecting 
smuggler  or  illicit  distiller  would  have  disgraced  himself 
by  touching  it. 

The  judges  walked  to  and  fro  importantly,  lords  of 
all — the  sporting  squire  high-stocked,  slim  and  jaunty  in 
the  wasp-waisted  London  fashions  of  a  year  ago,  the  two 
farmers  in  weather-beaten  blue  and  bottle-green,  with  sil- 
ver buttons  as  large  as  florins  on  their  waistcoats  and 
starring  the  huge  pocket-flaps  of  their  surtouts. 

The  whole  of  the  field  was  not  taken  up  by  the  teams. 
A  large  piece  was  marked  off  for  the  personal  competition 
to  be  decided  in  the  afternoon.  The  order  of  the  general 
match  was  this  :  A  Lowran  man  and  one  from  Kirkanders 
were  placed  time  about  beginning  from  the  right  of  the 
field.  Each  man  had  his  portion  which  he  must  finish 
within  a  given  period.  And  the  Laird  of  Rusco,  his  stop 
watch  in  his  hand,  checked  the  times. 


26  STRONG  MAC 

Jock  Fairies  stood  watching,  with  a  great  desire  to  par- 
ticipate. The  personal  competitions  were  just  about  to 
begin,  as  one  after  another  of  the  twenty  teams  finished 
their  piece  and  with  a  great  heave  upon  the  plough-stilts 
and  a  shout  to  the  horses  slid  the  share  clear  of  the  field 
of  combat. 

It  would,  however,  be  some  time  before  the  judges  fin- 
ished their  work.  They  cast  up  the  number  of  "points," 
and  the  total  achieved  by  Lowran  or  Kirkanders  decided 
the  fate  of  the  day.  That  is,  the  "day  general."  The  "day 
particular,"  or,  as  it  was  importantly  called,  the  "All- 
comers' Single-handed  Cup,"  was  the  blue  ribbon  of  the 
county,  and  the  dandiest  ploughmen  from  far  and  near 
came  to  try  their  luck.  Some  of  these  borrowed  a  neigh- 
bour's team.  Others  approached  a  former  master  with 
.  whom  they  had  parted  amicably,  and  obtained  for  the  oc- 
casion the  use  of  a  well-kenned  and  trusty  "pair."  For  to 
know  one's  horses  is  many  points  in  favour  of  a  plough- 
man. 

What  was  the  anger  of  Jock  Fairies  to  see  with  his  own 
eyes  Muckle  Sandy  Ewan  conducting  a  team  from  his 
father's  farm  toward  the  rigs  appointed  for  the  Single- 
hand  competition.  Sandy  also  saw  Jock,  as  was  abun- 
dantly obvious  from  his  greeting. 

"Oh,  Jock,  lassie-boy  Jock,"  he  shouted,  "gang  and  get 
your  pawmies  frae  a  lassie.  I'm  gaun  to  win  the  Cup. 
Rab  Telfer  says  there's  nane  can  beat  me — an'  yin  o'  the 
judges  owes  siller  to  my  faither !" 

Even  "dancing-mad,"  as  he  acknowledged  himself  to 
have  been,  Jock  Fairies  knew  that  this  last  was  a  vain  as- 
persion, and  he  only  wished  that  the  particular  judge 
referred  to  had  been  near  enough  to  hear.  But  all  three 
were  at  the  upper  end  of  the  field,  watching  the  com- 
petitors turning  into  the  last  home  stretch. 

Jock  Fairies  could  bear  the  tantalising  scene  no  longer. 
He  hurried  home,  rushed  across  the  farmyard,  in  at  the 
back  door,  and  without  stopping  for  explanation  helped 
himself  to  a  plate  of  broth  from  the  pot  which  stood  at  the 


THE  PLOUGHING  MATCH  27 

side  of  the  fire  simmering  gently.  Then  he  cut  himseH 
a  slice  or  two  of  cold  mutton-ham  and  devoured  it  between 
two  scones,  using  the  "comfortable  family  broth"  as  a 
beverage,  bite  and  sup  about  with  his  impromptu  sand- 
wich. 

In  five  minutes  he  was  back  again  at  the  field.  He 
stopped  half-heartedly  at  the  open  gate.  He  hesitated. 
He  was  lost.  Entering  hurriedly,  he  hastened  to  the  part 
of  the  Benty  Rigs  where  the  portions  for  the  "Single- 
hand"  were  marked  off.  More  than  half  of  the  compet- 
itors had  already  commenced.  Sandy  Ewan  had  turned 
once  and  was  coming  back.  A  little  crowd  of  plough- 
men who  did  not  intend  to  try  the  double  event,  as  well 
as  not  a  few  ordinary  spectators,  clustered  about  the  rig- 
end,  waiting  for  him  to  come  in. 

Sandy  was  a  sturdy  fellow,  and  had  a  natural  eye  for 
ploughing.  The  Kirkanders  folk  were  inclined  to  put 
their  money  on  him,  not  only  because  his  father  was  their 
richest  man  but  because  of  the  interest  attaching  to  his 
youth.  It  would  be  a  feather  in  their  cap  if  a  Kirkanders 
laddie  fresh  from  school  should  win  the  Cup. 

The  hope  of  Lowran  was  a  grey-headed  old  cotman 
from  the  Upper  Crae,  whose  eye  was  like  that  of  the  cap- 
tain of  a  ship,  and  who  always  carried  off  the  prizes  for 
working  his  horses  the  most  quietly,  as  well  as  that  for 
the  longest  period  of  service  under  one  master.  Robin 
Kirk  was  the  name  of  him. 

But  though  he  was  probably  the  most  scientific  plough- 
man on  the  field,  Robin  was  already  tired  with  his  work 
in  the  general  competition,  while  the  furrows  in  the  new 
portion  of  the  Benty  Rigs  were  considerably  more  diffi- 
cult, owing  to  a  stiffish  compost  of  clay  in  the  hollow  to 
the  left  of  the  ridge. 

"Oh,  burn  my  stockin'  feet !"  cried  Jock  Fairies,  "he's 
beatin'  Robin.  The  auld  man  hasna  the  weight  to  haud 
her  nose  to  the  dour  land !  We'll  be  disgraced — fair  dis- 
graced— and  by  that  great  nowt  o'  a  Sandy  Ewan." 


28  STRONG  MAC 

There  was  a  slight  cheer  from  the  Kirkanders  men  as 
Muckle  Sandy  came  in. 

"Perfect— richt  to  a  hair!"  'The  exact  deepness!" 
"What  a  turn!" 

These  were  some  of  the  exclamations,  half-smothered, 
but  most  encouraging — meant  to  be  so,  too.  With  a 
pleased  look  on  his  face  Muckle  Sandy  bent  himself  away 
again,  like  a  clever  boat  on  a  new  tack. 

"Oh,  wha  will  we  get — wha  will  we  get  ?"  moaned  Jock 
Fairies.  "Oh,  if  Strong  Mac  wad  only  come.  But  he 
willna,  the  waster !  He  could  ploo  that  great  nowt  Sandy 
oot  o'  creation!  But  he — willna — he  willna!  He's  just 
fair  daft  aboot  that  Dominie's  lassie!  /  wish  a'  lassies 
were  tieid!" 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   WOMAN    SCORNED. 

AFTER  the  furious  excitements  of  the  morning  the  quiet 
of  the  school  playground  began  to  prey  a  little  upon  the 
nerves  of  Strong  Mac.  It  was  not  often  that  he  so  roused 
himself  to  action,  and  when  he  did  it  was  generally  on  be- 
half of  another.  He  fell  to  wondering  listlessly  where 
the  others  were,  what  they  were  doing.  Presently  he 
thought  of  his  brother. 

"That  Jamie  will  be  at  the  plooin'  match !"  he  mur- 
mured, smiling  at  his  own  thought.  "Wait  till  the  after- 
noon. I'll  warm  him." 

This  naturally  took  him  to  the  master's  ash-plant,  in 
which,  when  in  exercise  upon  himself,  he  had  remarked 
a  certain  lack  of  the  true  convincing  suppleness.  He  went 
into  the  school  again  and  took  down  the  emblem  of  au- 
thority. "Na,  na,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "that's  no' 
as  it  should  be!  It  ought  to  loup  like  an  eel  new  ta'en 
frae  a  stank !" 

He  tried  it  upon  his  palm. 

"It's  sair,"  he  said,  "but  it  hasna  the  richt  convincin' 
bite.  I  ken  whaur  to  get  a  better." 

He  turned  to  go  out  again,  and  in  the  very  doorway 
encountered  the  great  languishing  blue  eyes,  the  tall,  well- 
rounded  form  and  infantile  curves  of  Miss  Charlotte 
Webster. 

"Oh,  Roy,  ye  are  no'  gangin'  oot  because  I  am  comin' 
in?"  she  said,  with  a  confiding  glance  and  a  coquettish 
toss  of  her  head. 

"I  am  that!"  said  Strong  Mac,  ungallantly. 

The  girl  sighed  a  little,  looked  down  at  her  toe  making 


30  STRONG  MAC 

patterns  in  the  dust  of  the  porch,  and  then  glancing  up  at 
him,  said :  "Bide — I  hae  something  to  tell  ye." 

"What  is't  ?"  said  Strong  Mac,  hanging  upon  one  foot. 
"I  hae  an  ash-plant  to  cut  up  the  Holm  Road." 

"Oh,"  said  Charlotte  Webster,  meaningly,  "of  course. 
Ye  wad  do  onything  for  her.  Ye  wadna  bide  a  minute  to 
hear—" 

"To  hear  what?  I  haena  time!"  interrupted  Strong 
Mac.  "Lasses  are  that  silly." 

"She  is  no*  stay?' 

"No,  she's  no',"  said  Strong  Mac,  dauntlessly.  "There's 
no'  a  lass  in  a  thoosand  could  hae  keepit  the  schule  the  day 
and  teached  the  Muckle  Laitin  like  yon!" 

"That's  no'  a'  what  lasses  are  guid  for,"  said  Charlotte. 
"There's  some  wad  do  mair  than  that  to  pleasure  a  bonny 
lad." 

"Aye?"  said  Strong  Mac,  impersonally. 

Charlotte  Webster  impatiently  snatched  a  handkerchief 
out  of  a  side  pocket  under  her  little  white  apron,  and 
dabbed  hard  at  her  eyes  as  she  turned  away. 

"Your  heart's  as  hard — "  she  paused  for  a  compari- 
son, and  none  presenting  itself,  she  concluded  lamely,  "as 
hard !" 

Now  in  that  age  of  frank  admirations,  Strong  Mac  had 
been  made  advances  to  in  this  way  before.  He  was  a 
bonny  lad.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  He  wished  the 
girls  wouldn't,  and  liked  Adora  Gracie  because  she  never 
did  such  things.  Still,  he  was  sorry  if  he  had  hurt  any 
one's  feelings — even  Charlotte  Webster's. 

"I  didna  mean  onything,  Chairlie,"  he  said,  though 
something  told  him  that  he  might  live  to  repent  the  weak- 
ness. 

Charlotte  Webster  turned  sharply  at  the  word,  the  white 
kerchief  in  her  hand.  She  came  and  laid  her  fingers 
gently  on  his  arm,  and  seeing  that  he  stood  still,  she  looked 
up  and  murmured,  "Ye  are  a  bonny  lad  !" 

But  this  was  too  much  for  the  fine  mountain-bred  young 
Spartan. 


A  WOMAN  SCORNED  31 

"Oh,  don't  maul !"  he  cried,  dropping  her  hand  off  his 
cuff.  "I  hate  maulers !" 

The  wide  blue  eyes  flashed  fire  this  time.  The  tears 
stopped  welling. 

"Oh,  and  I  hate  you!"  she  cried.  "I  will  never  speak 
to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

But  Mac  knew  the  counter  for  that.  He  had  needed  to 
use  it  before. 

"Yes,  you  will,"  he  said,  ungraciously,  "worse  luck !" 

And  he  went  out,  leaving  Miss  Webster  ready  to  dis- 
solve into  angry  tears. 

"I  wonder  how  she  does  it,"  she  thought  to  herself.  "I 
wish  I  knew.  He  likes  her  best,  though  she's  two  years 
younger  than  me,  and  no'  half  as  bonny." 

She  pulled  a  little  mirror  out  of  her  pocket  and  looked 
long  and  carefully  at  herself.  She  had  saved  up  to  buy 
it  from  Packman  Geordie  on  his  last  journey,  and  had 
had  vast  trouble  in  hiding  it  from  her  mother,  who  was  a 
religious  woman  of  a  severe  type,  and  did  not  approve  of 
the  pomps  and  vanities  of  this  wicked  world  as  exem- 
plified in  girls  of  sixteen  carrying  pocket-mirrors  about 
with  them. 

Likewise  Charlotte  had  to  retie  her  hair  at  Miss  Keek's, 
where  she  left  her  dinner-bag  on  the  way  to  school.  Miss 
Keck — Louisa  Keck  was  the  village  dressmaker  and 
milliner,  a  withered  old  maid  with  a  penchant  for  beauty 
in  others,  whose  praises  had  had  the  effect  of  making 
Charlotte  Webster  inordinately  vain. 

A  moment's  perusal  of  her  face  satisfied  Charlotte  that 
her  failure  was  not  owing  to  anything  in  herself.  Every- 
thing was  right.  Her  ribbons  were  neatly  tied,  and  went 
beautifully  with  her  hair,  which  (in  her  mother's  ab- 
sence) she  wore  massed  low  in  the  nape  of  the  neck,  after 
a  picture  she  had  seen  of  the  Empress  of  the  French. 

Charlotte  smiled.  It  was  the  identical  smile  which  Miss 
Keck  had  declared  to  be  irresistible.  Charlotte  languished, 
and  the  piti fulness  of  the  expression  melted  even  herself. 
And  after  all,  she  was  despised — for  whom?  For  a 


32  STRONG  MAC 

girl  of  fifteen,  lean  as  a  rake,  black  as  a  crow, 
just  because  she  could  do  sums  and  knew  Latin.  What 
was  Latin  ?  Did  any  girl  ever  get  a  sweetheart  by  know- 
ing Latin?  She  had  never  heard  of  one.  Neither  had 
Miss  Keck.  Well,  she  could  wait.  After  all,  Roy  McCul- 
loch  was  but  one — a  boy — nothing  more — not  so  old  as 
herself.  He  might  be  strong.  He  was — yes,  what  was 
the  word  Miss  Keck  had  used — "handsome" — that  was  it. 
But  it  would  all  come  right.  She  would  show  him.  Per- 
haps she  had  been  too  open — thrown  herself  at  him — made 
herself  cheap.  At  any  rate,  he  was  not  like  the  others. 
And  Miss  Webster  felt  piqued.  The  attractiveness  of  that 
which  we  thought  we  were  sure  of  is  suddenly  more  than 
doubled  when  we  find  that  we  are  not  likely  to  get  it. 

In  the  meantime  it  struck  her  that  Roy  McCulloch  ought 
to  be  punished  for  the  shameful  way  in  which  he  had 
spoken  to  her.  Perhaps  at  that  moment  he  was  away  in 
the  woods  cutting  a  horrid  stick  to  strike  her  with.  He 
would  not  think  twice  about  that,  she  told  herself.  Per- 
haps he  would  tell  right  out  in  the  school  what  she  had 
said  to  him.  He  was  capable  of  such  treachery.  Had  he 
not  threatened  about  the  carrying  of  the  milk — no,  that 
was  not  Roy,  that  was  James ;  but  Roy  must  have  seen, 
and  then  threatened  her  in  public. 

She  rose  and  went  on  tiptoe  to  his  school-bag.  It  lay 
in  the  covered  desk  which  Roy  shared  with  his  brother 
and  Jock  Fairies.  There  was  a  puzzle  lock  of  string 
on  it.  But  Jamie  McCulloch,  in  an  hour  of  expansion, 
had  shown  her  the  secret  of  it.  So  she  opened  it  now, 
after  a  little  puckering  of  her  smooth  brows. 

There  was  a  gleam  of  something  ruddy  under  the  flap 
of  the  brown  leather  bag.  She  poked  cautiously  to  see  if 
it  would  prove  to  be  alive.  Then  she  slid  the  strap  round, 
and  lo !  a  beautiful  pheasant  lay  before  her.  He  had  been 
shot  under  the  wing,  and  a  red  drop  came  off  on  her  finger 
as  she  turned  him  over. 

"Ugh,  nasty!"  said  Charlotte,  shuddering  at  the  sight 
of  blood.  She  looked  further.  In  another  compartment 


A  WOMAN  SCORNED  33 

lay  a  little  flask  of  something  that  rattled.  Oh,  she  knew ! 
These  were  pellets  of  lead  with  which  men  killed  birds. 
Then  she  unrolled  several  bullets  wrapped  in  a  place  by 
themselves.  Here  was  wadding,  and  here,  in  an  old  dun- 
coloured  leathern  flask,  powder.  Oh,  if  only  she  could 
make  it  go  off  at  the  right  time  and  frighten  him — that 
is,  without  hurting  him  very  much !  That  would  pay  him 
out  for  his  insolence.  But  she  did  not  know  the  way  to 
do  it  safely. 

Ah,  she  had  it.  She  knew  what  would  make  him  sor- 
rier. So  she  carefully  carried  the  powder-horn  to  the 
water-spout  where  the  children  drank,  round  the  corner 
of  the  school.  She  took  the  chained  iron  cup  and,  prizing 
up  the  little  measuring  lever  of  the  cut-off,  she  poured  half 
a  cupful  into  the  flask  and  gave  it  a  shake. 

"There,"  she  said,  with  malicious  glee,  "that  will  learn 
Roy  McCulloch  no*  to  think  himsel'  sae  clever  anither 
time.  And  he  will  find  oot  by  and  by  that  he  may  learn 
ither  things  frae  lasses  forbye  Laitin !" 

Which  certainly,  in  due  course,  Strong  Mac  did  dis- 
cover. 

Then,  having  made  these  thoughtful  arrangements, 
Miss  Charlotte  Webster  shut  the  school  door  behind  her 
and  went  up  the  village  street  to  pour  her  troubles  into 
the  sympathetic  ear  of  Miss  Louisa  Keck. 

She  had  hardly  reached  the  main  road  when  she  saw 
two  men  advancing  from  the  direction  of  the  village.  One 
of  them  she  knew  as  Jonathan  Grier,  the  head  keeper  of 
the  Kell's  Range  estates  and  forest.  The  other,  a  young- 
ish, bearded  man,  was  unknown  to  her. 

Jonathan,  the  keeper,  stopped  and  hailed  her.  He  was 
in  some  distant  way  related  to  her  mother,  and  on  more 
than  one  occasion  had  shown  himself  not  unanxious  to 
call  himself  her  cousin.  And  as  he  was  a  well-looking 
unmarried  man,  Charlotte  had  not  been  too  particular  as  to 
genealogies. 

"My  faith,  ye  are  bonnier  than  ever  1"  he  cried  with  the 


34  STRONG  MAC 

rough,  country-bred  geniality  which  in  such  cases  passes 
for  wit. 

Charlotte  tossed  her  head  and  asked  him  how  that  might 
concern  him. 

He  replied  that  it  concerned  him  a  great  deal,  if  the 
thought  of  her  kept  him  from  getting  his  natural  sleep  in 
the  shooting  season. 

"And  a'  thae  poachers  to  watch,  too,"  he  added.  "I  can 
tell  ye,  Cousin  Chairlie,  that  a  puir  gamewatcher  canna 
afford  to  hae  his  head  filled  wi'  thochts  o'  bonnie  lasses 
at  this  time  o'  the  year — wij  the  pheasants  to  keep  an  e'e 
on,  and  the  deer  comin*  doon  aff  the  hills  in  droves." 

A  sudden  temptation  to  astonish  the  head  keeper  took 
hold  on  Charlotte  Webster,  mingled  with  an  indignant 
sense  of  the  difference  between  his  treatment  of  her  and 
that  of — the  Other.  She  looked  back  at  the  schoolhouse. 
There  was  Adora  Gracie  hanging  out  something  on  a 
clothes-line.  The  girl  stood  clear  and  graceful  against 
the  sky  on  the  top  of  the  knoll  above  the  trees.  As  Char- 
lotte looked  she  waved  her  hand  to  some  one  whom  the 
watcher  could  not  see  across  the  fields.  Of  course,  Char- 
lotte knew  who  that  must  be.  Suddenly  her  mind  was 
made  up. 

"If  I  tell  ye  something,"  she  said  to  Keeper  Jonathan, 
"yell  say  sure  as  daith  that  ye  will  never  tell  I  telled  ye !" 

The  keeper,  rather  astonished,  gave  the  promise,  glanc- 
ing after  his  companion  anxiously  as  he  did  so.  The 
bearded  man  had  walked  on  a  little  way. 

"And  him?"  continued  Charlotte,  pointing  also  to  the 
grey-eyed  man. 

"Oh,  I  will  answer  for  him!"  said  the  keeper,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Weel,"  said  Woman  Scorned,  "if  ye  want  to  ken  whaur 
some  o'  your  pheasants  wander  to,  ask  Roy  McCulloch  o' 
the  Back  Hoose  o'  the  Muir  to  show  ye  his  bag  the  nicht 
as  he  gangs  hame  frae  the  schule !" 

The  men  looked  quickly  at  each  other. 

"Roy  McCulloch,  who's  he?"  said  the  bearded  man, 


MY  FAITH  !      HE  CRIED,    *  YE  ARE  BONNIER  THAN  EVER. 


A  WOMAN  SCORNED  35 

speaking  for  the  first  time  as  he  walked  toward  them, 
switching  his  leg  with  a  Malacca  cane. 

"A  son  of  that  infernal  poacher  up  on  the  Out  Muir !" 
exclaimed  Jonathan.  "I  would  gie  a  pound  note  oot  o' 
my  wage  if  I  could  grip  him — aye,  or  ony  o'  the  clan  o' 
them!" 

The  men  went  on,  intent  upon  their  talk,  without  so 
much  as  thanking  Charlotte. 

The  young  woman  stood  sulking,  and  then  instead  of 
going  in  to  see  Miss  Keck,  turned  up  the  Holm  Road  in 
the  direction  of  the  ploughing  match. 

Perhaps  it  began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  she  had  better 
have  ignited  the  powder  at  once  than  set  such  a  fuse 
alight,  and  timed  it  to  explode  as  Roy  McCulloch  took  his 
way  homewards  to  the  solitary  cot  of  the  House  of  Muir. 

Iv 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GREAT  WAS  THE  FALL  THEREOF. 

To  seek  a  fit  and  proper  ash-plant  Roy  McCulloch  had 
gone  over  the  dyke  at  the  old  smithy,  and  held  up  the 
burn-side  into  the  Holm  plantations.  Here  he  soon  made 
choice  of  half-a-dozen  shoots,  supple,  tough,  resilient, 
mightily  convincing  to  the  natural  palm. 

With  one  of  these  in  his  hands  to  trim  as  he  walked 
along,  and  the  rest  in  a  bundle  underneath  his  arm,  Strong 
Mac  sauntered  whistling  toward  the  main  road.  Instinct- 
ively he  took  a  short  cut  at  right  angles  to  his  former  path, 
and  presently,  as  fate  would  have  it,  he  came  out  upon  the 
woody  ridge  which  faces  the  battleground  of  the  Benty 
Rigs. 

The  shouts  and  encouragements  of  the  rival  ploughmen, 
the  clinking  of  accoutrements,  the  stir  and  movement  of 
the  people  looking  on,  took  all  the  boy  in  Roy  McCulloch 
by  the  throat.  He  stood  mechanically  paring  and  polish- 
ing his  scholastic  tools,  but  his  eyes  were  upon  the  scene 
before  him.  To  a  lad  from  the  wild  moor  solitudes,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  whole  world  were  present  at  his  feet. 

Hardly  could  he  restrain  himself.  His  fingers  itched 
for  the  firm  grip  of  the  plough-stilts,  for  the  tug  and  strain 
of  the  horses,  to  feel  the  nervous  twitch  of  the  far-con- 
trolling reins.  It  was  in  his  heart  that  he  could  plough 
as  well  or  better  than  any  man  there.  He  had  spent  the 
previous  winter  and  spring  as  "orra,"  or  odd  man,  on  the 
large  farm  of  Craig  Ronald,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
rise  on  which  his  father's  cot  was  placed.  The  regular 
practitioner  had  been  taken  ill,  and  Roy  McCulloch  had 
not  only  undertaken  his  work,  but  had  so  improved  upon 


GREAT  WAS  THE  FALL  THEREOF    37 

it,  both  in  speed  and  quality,  that  his  furrows  had  become 
a  source  of  satisfaction  and  pride  to  his  master,  and  of 
envying  and  grieving  to  his  professional  peers. 

As  Roy  stood  there  watching,  his  blood  stirring  oddly 
within  him,  keen  for  conflict,  emulous  of  fame,  he  grew 
conscious  of  the  cries  of  "Strong  Mac!  Strong  Mac!" 
with  which  the  sight  of  his  figure  was  greeted  from  the 
field  of  battle. 

But  it  was  not  till  Jock  Fairies  came  charging  upon 
him  so  hastily  that  in  scrambling  over  he  brought  down 
half-a-dozen  stones  from  the  road  dyke,  that  he  paid  any 
attention  to  them.  Roy  McCulloch  thought  they  were 
uttered  mockingly  because  he  had  forbidden  the  school 
to  go  near  the  ploughing  match. 

"Oh,  Mac,"  panted  Jock,  tremulous  with  excitement, 
"come  quick !  For  the  Lord's  sake  haste  ye,  or  Muckle 
Sandy  Ewan  will  carry  awa'  the  Single-handed  frae 
Lowran  that  has  been  oors  for  twenty  years.  They  hae 
your  auld  'turn-oot'  frae  Craig  Ronald  waitin'  for  ye. 
Oh,  haste  ye — haste  ye  fast !  Oh,  the  disgrace — onybody 
but  Sandy  Ewan !  Cast  your  coat  and  to  it,  Strong  Mac ! 
For  the  honour  o'  Lowran  and  to  stop  Muckle  Sandy  frae 
crawin'  a'  the  days  o'  his  life !" 

"But — but,"  said  Roy,  a  little  dazed  by  the  pour  of 
words,  "I  hae  promised  to  be  at  the  schule  when  the  bell 
rings.  It's  me  that  helpit  the  lass  to  keep  it  this  mornin?, 
sae  that  they  wadna  tak'  it  frae  her  faither  as  they  threepit 
they  wad  do  the  last  time." 

"I  ken — I  ken,"  said  Jock,  "but  oh,  man,  hearken! 
There's  only  yae  rig  o'  bonny  grund  to  ploo — the  last  but 
twa,  and  ye'll  hae  it  feenished  lang  afore  the  afternoon. 
Come  on !" 

The  eagerness  of  contest  latent  in  every  man  took 
Strong  Mac  unawares.  He  was  so  easily  victor  in 
wrestling,  putting  the  stone  and  other  diversions  that  this 
seemed  suddenly  something  well  worth  trying  for.  He 
moved  irresolutely  down  the  slope,  strode  over  Jock 
Fairies's  gap  and  stood  in  the  road.  By  this  time  his  old 


38  STRONG  MAC 

master,  Mr.  Charteris  of  Craig  Ronald,  was  waving  an 
arm  to  him  to  hasten.  He  could  see  the  arched  backs  and 
shining  flanks  of  Adam  and  Eve,  his  old  working  team, 
and  that  fired  him  more  than  anything  else. 

"Haste  ye,  Roy,"  cried  the  farmer  of  Craig  Ronald, 
"they're  waitin'.  Cast  your  coat !" 

The  tempter  triumphed.  Roy  cast  his  rods,  trimmed 
and  untrimmed,  under  the  dyke  and  ran  hastily  to  the 
plough.  The  man  in  charge  yielded  it  with  a  grin. 

"I'm  no  man  for't — try  you !  Ye're  welcome,"  he  said. 
"Haud  her,  man,  haud  her  straight — for  the  honour  o' 
auld  Lowran !" 

Adam  and  Eve  turned  to  look  over  their  shoulders  at 
the  sound  of  Roy's  step.  He  went  about  them  once  care- 
fully to  get  the  harness  buckles  to  his  mind,  patted  both 
of  them  on  their  moist  noses,  was  snuffed  and  blown  all 
over  with  evident  satisfaction,  and  went  back  to  the 
plough  tail  with  a  bounding  heart. 

"Roy  McCulloch!  Next  I"  cried  the  starter  in  a  sten- 
torian voice. 

"Strong  Mac !  Strong  Mac  for  Lowran !"  shouted  half- 
a-dozen,  led  by  the  now  almost  frantic  Jock  Fairies,  who 
danced  about  in  his  eagerness  like  a  hen  on  a  hot  gridle. 

And  the  next  moment  Strong  Mac  felt  the  riss-ss-ssp 
of  the  entering  blade,  the  halt  and  heave  as  the  iron  took 
the  full  deep  furrow,  and  then — he  was  half  way  up  the 
field  before  he  knew  it.  The  shouting  sank  behind  him. 
He  felt  the  fresh  potent  smell  of  the  newly  turned  earth 
in  his  nostrils. 

It  went  to  his  head  likewise.  His  heart  had  been  thun- 
dering in  his  ears,  but  now  there  fell  upon  him  a  strange 
calm.  Adam  and  Eve  were  working  with  tempered  stead- 
iness. The  rich  brown  soil  fell  away  as  easily  as  blue 
water  before  the  prow  of  a  boat.  Strong  Mac  felt  the 
power  within  him.  His  very  soul  went  into  the  steel  of 
his  wrist  muscles. 

He  was  breasting  the  little  undulation  of  the  ridge  when 
Muckle  Sandy  passed  him,  bending  to  his  task  with  plenti- 


GREAT  WAS  THE  FALL  THEREOF    39 

ful  energy.  As  he  caught  sight  of  Roy  McCulloch  he 
seemed  to  lose  grip  for  a  moment  in  his  astonishment. 
The  plough  bounded  as  from  a  hidden  stone,  and  the  grey 
sheen  of  the  polished  iron  showed  a  moment  above  the 
Indian  red  of  the  soil. 

But  neither  spoke.  Both  were  far  too  intent  on  their  work. 
It  chanced,  however,  that  at  that  moment  the  three  judges 
were  quite  near.  They  had  completed  their  task  of  judg- 
ing the  first  portion  of  the  match,  though  their  decision 
was  as  yet  kept  a  profound  secret,  locked  beneath  their 
hat  brims.  One  of  the  two  farmers  noticed  the  leap  of 
Sandy  Ewan's  ploughshare.  He  walked  to  the  spot  down 
one  of  the  narrow  causeways  of  green  still  left,  fast  dimin- 
ishing, among  the  long  red  parallels  of  the  ploughed  land. 

"What  was  the  maiter  wi'  young  Ewan  ?"  he  said  to  the 
other  two.  "There's  nae  stane  there !" 

But  the  truth  was  that  all  unexpectedly  Muckle  Sandy 
had  come  upon  an  obstacle  worse  than  any  stone  in  the 
way  of  his  progress  cup-wards. 

After  the  second  turn  at  the  starting  place  there  was  no 
more  shouting  among  the  crowd,  only  a  three-quarter  cir- 
cle of  intent  faces,  all  bent  upon  the  performance  of  work 
in  which  every  man  present  was  an  expert. 

Wise  heads  were  cocked  to  the  side,  as  it  were,  to  taste 
the  completed  furrow.  Eyes  shrewd  and  grey  followed  the 
next  grip  and  take  of  the  share  as  the  teams  drew  steadily 
away.  Surely,  Britannia  never  ruled  the  waves  so 
straightly  as  these  grey-shining  keels  the  undulating  acres 
of  the  Benty  Rigs. 

It  was  over.  Strong  Mac  took  his  team  out  at  the  ap- 
pointed place,  drew  up  at  the  dykeside,  patted  Adam  and 
Eve,  gave  them  a  first  rub  with  a  borrowed  cloth — and — 
came  to  himself. 

The  school — A  dor  a  Grade — his  promise! 

He  was  shamed,  disgraced.  Never  could  he  look  her 
in  the  face  again.  Not  at  all  in  the  way  of  love-making 
or  love-feeling.  He  never  thought  of  that,  but  as  one  to 
be  trusted,  a  man  of  his  word. 


40  STRONG  MAC 

Already  the  judges  were  walking  up  and  down,  pacing, 
measuring,  consulting.  The  two  farmers  stood  medita- 
tively scratching  their  chins.  The  smart  young  laird  was 
voluble  of  whispers,  alternately  sprightly  and  dramatic  in 
attitude. 

But  all  suddenly  Roy  McCulloch  had  no  pleasure  in 
aught  that  he  had  done.  He  started  abruptly  toward  the 
corner  of  the  field  where  he  had  left  his  ash-plants.  He 
tucked  them  mechanically  under  his  arm,  vaulted  lightly 
into  the  road  and  marched  gloomily  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  schoolhouse  of  Lowran. 

He  heard,  but  heeded  not,  the  shouting  behind  him. 

"Come  back — hey,  there!  Mac!  Strong  Mac!  Roy 
McCulloch!  Come  back!" 

But  Strong  Mac,  deep  in  the  shame  of  his  soul,  never 
even  turned  his  head. 

He  heard  the  patter  of  feet  behind  him,  and  presently 
Jock  Fairies  dashed  up  with  something  in  his  hand. 

"Come  back,"  he  said ;  "man,  ye  hae  won  the  Cup.  I 
heard  them  gie  it  oot!  Ye  are  to  come  back  for  the 
judges  to  do  something — I  forget — *  congregation'  ye,  I 
think  they  said !" 

"I'm  no'  gaun  back  nane !"  said  Roy,  strengthening  his 
negative  in  the  French  manner — which  is  also  good 
Scots. 

"Faith,  then,"  said  Jock,  "I  was  thinkin'  that.  Ye  are 
a  dour  hound.  Sae  I  jest  fetched  it.  It  was  my  faither 
had  the  buyin'  o't.  Hae — tak'  it!  It's  stampit  silver!" 

"Throw  it  over  the  dyke !"  growled  Strong  Mac.  "I'm 
shamed  for  ever!" 

Jock  Fairies  gaped  at  him,  with  growing  doubts  of  his 
sanity. 

"Glory !"  he  cried.  "I  wad  gie  a'  my  ain  siller  an'  half 
o'  my  faither's  to  be  shamed  in  the  same  way.  Man,  do 
ye  ken  that  ye  are  the  only  man  that  has  keepit  Lowran 
frae  being  het- faced  in  disgrace  this  day?  For  the  match 
has  been  gi'en  against  us.  And  if  Sandy  Ewan  had  won 


GREAT  WAS  THE  FALL  THEREOF    41 

the  Single-handed,  no'  a  man  o'  us  wad  ever  hae  been  able 
to  hand  up  his  heid  again." 

"But  I  promised — I  was  to  keep  the  schule !  Me  that 
garred  them  a'  promise.  Me  to  gang  to  the  plooin' 
match !" 

The  son  and  heir  of  the  farmer  of  Holm  gasped. 

"The  schule?"  he  cried.  "What's  aboot  the  schule? 
Ye  can  gang  to  the  schule  ony  day.  But  the  Single- 
handed  !  To  beat  a'  Lowran  and  Kirkanders  1" 

"It's,  no'  the  schule — it's  my  passed  word !"  said  Strong 
Mac,  hopelessly. 

"Hoots,"  said  Jock  Fairies,  "it's  only  to  a  lassie.  Juist 
flairdie"  (coax)  "her  a  wee  and  it  will  be  a'  richt !" 

"No  it  winna,"  said  Strong  Mac,  grimly.  Then  after 
a  pause  he  added,  "I'm  gaun  back.  Sae  are  you !" 

Jock  Fairies  turned,  as  if  to  flee  at  the  word. 

"Deil  a  step!"  he  cried,  dourly.  "What  do  you  tak' 
me  for,  Roy  McCulloch?  The  wale  o'  the  fun  is  to 
come !" 

"I'll  tak'  ye  back  to  the  schule — we'll  hae  some  fun 
there,  you  an'  me !"  said  Strong  Mac,  darkly. 

Jock  Fairies,  with  the  vision  of  the  cold  collation  wait- 
ing on  the  judges  and  selected  friends  in  his  father's 
dining-room,  tried  a  bolt  and  rush.  But  Strong  Mac  had 
him  by  the  collar  in  a  moment. 

"Nane  o'  that,"  he  murmured  between  his  teeth  as  he 
shook  him.  "It  was  you  that  made  me  forget,  and  it's  you 
that's  gaun  to  gar  me  mind !" 

"Weel,"  answered  Jock  Fairies,  "ye  needna  joggle  the 
heid  aff  my  body,  at  ony  rate.  I  declare,  I'm  like  a  red 
thistle  wi'  its  neck  broken !" 

To  this  Strong  Mac  made  no  reply,  and  the  two 
marched  silently  abreast  to  the  schoolhouse  door.  Jock 
was  carrying  the  "Single-handed"  Cup  carefully,  as  be- 
came the  bearer  of  a  trophy.  Also,  he  had  news  to  tell. 
On  the  whole,  he  was  a  happy  boy.  Ah !  if  he  had  but 
known,  neither  pride  nor  minted  gold  would  have 
tempted  him  to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  Lowran  school. 


42  STRONG  MAC 

"Open  the  door !"  Strong  Mac  ordered  his  companion. 

"Gang  in !" 

Jock  Fairies  entered,  holding  the  Cup  in  his  hands 
proudly,  as  if  it  had  been  the  day  of  the  annual  "presenta- 
tion," when  the  bairns  requited  their  master  with  gifts 
for  his  attentions  of  the  year. 

The  close  school  scent  of  many  breathings  and  damp 
clothes  met  them  full,  as  well  as  a  curious  waiting  hush. 
Adora  Gracie  was  at  the  desk  with  a  book  in  her  hand. 
She  did  not  look  at  the  pair  as  they  came  in.  But  the 
school  made  up  for  this  by  gazing  open-mouthed. 

Deil  McRobb  emitted  a  little  whinny  of  apprehension 
as  his  eye  fell  on  the  supple  ash-plants  under  Strong 
Mac's  arm.  He  had  a  presentiment,  which  in  his  own 
mind  amounted  to  certainty,  that  he  was  destined  to  make 
closer  acquaintance  with  some  of  these. 

With  an  inflexible,  determinate  hand  upon  his  collar, 
Strong  Mac  shoved  his  companion  up  in  front  of  the  mas- 
ter's desk,  in  which  stood  Adora,  the  book  still  in  her 
hand. 

"Stan'  there !  an'  dinna  ye  budge !"  he  ordered. 

"The  Cup— the  'Single-handed' !  Oh,  lads,  he's  won  it! 
Strong  Mac's  won  it !" 

As  these  words  left  his  lips  Jock  Fairies  received  a 
buffet  on  the  side  of  his  head  which  almost  made  him  drop 
the  trophy. 

"Maister,"  said  Strong  Mac  clearly,  so  that  all  the 
school  could  hear,  "I  hae  dune  wrang — I  forgot  mysel' — 
me  that  promised  to  help  ye — to  stan'  at  your  richt  hand. 
I  was  temptit.  I  gaed  to  the  plooin'  match — me  an'  Jock 
Fairies.  But  we  hae  corned  back,  me  and  him — and  thae !" 

He  held  out  the  new  ash-plants  in  both  hands,  and  as 
Adora  did  not  take  them,  he  piled  them  on  the  front  of  the 
desk  above  the  covered  inkwell. 

"But  I  hae  thocht  what  to  do,"  he  went  on.  "There's 
Jock  that  first  did  wrang,  for  he  was  there  and  he  temptit 
me.  And  there  is  me,  that  should  hae  kenned  the  better, 
for  it  was  me  that  forbade  the  schule  to  gang  to  the  Benty 


GREAT  WAS  THE  FALL  THEREOF    43 

Rigs.  Noo,  ye  are  the  maister.  It  should  be  you  that 
should  thresh  us.  But  we  are  muckie  and  ayont  your 
strength  to  gar  mind.  This  is  what  we  will  do.  I'll  un- 
dertak'  to  mak'  Jock  here  be  vexed  for  his  misdeeds,  and 
he'll  do  the  same  for  me.  Time  aboot !" 

He  handed  Jock  Fairies  one  of  the  supple  ash-plants, 
giving  it  a  preliminary  swish  through  the  air  to  test  its 
capacities.  Then  he  selected  one  himself  more  at  random. 
Jock  Fairies  look  astonished  and  laughed  inanely. 

"It'll  be  juist  fun,"  he  whispered,  a  little  uncertainly. 

"Aye,  juist  fun!  Haud  oot  yer  hand!"  said  Strong 
Mac,  in  an  even  voice. 

"No — you  first!"  said  Jock  Fairies,  as  a  guarantee  of 
good  faith. 

Jock  raised  the  rod  and  with  a  sort  of  giggle  brought  it 
down  on  his  companion's  hand,  saving  the  stroke  at  the 
end  in  a  way  known  to  boys. 

Roy  McCulloch  received  no  more  than  the  tap  of  a  rat's 
tail. 

"Your  time !"  he  said,  with  a  grimness  which  might 
have  warned  his  comrade. 

Jock  Fairies  held  out  his  own  hand  and  received  a 
stinger  that  drew  an  involuntary  yell  from  him. 

"That's  no  fair !"  he  cried.     "I  only  hit  you  in  fun." 

"Did  ye?"  said  Strong  Mac.  "Then  the  mair  fule  you ! 
This  is  to  gar  you  an'  me  mind  the  Lowran  plooin'  match 
a'  the  days  of  oor  lives !" 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  sincerity  of  Jock's  inten- 
tions when  next  he  smote.  Vengeance  whistled  in  his 
ash-plant. 

"That's  some  better !"  said  Strong  Mac,  with  a  short  in- 
drawing  of  the  breath. 

Twenty  apiece  was  the  count  and  tale  of  their  mutual 
penance.  Every  one  was  satisfied — the  school  especially  so. 
Those  who  chanced  to  be  absent  said  they  would  rather 
have  missed  a  hundred  ploughing  matches  than  this  his- 
toric holocaust. 


44  STRONG  MAC 

"Lord,  what  a  lickin' !"  was  the  general  verdict,  given 
with  a  delightful  shiver. 

Afterward  Jock  Fairies  was  called  upon  to  give  his  ex- 
periences. 

"It  was  like  this,"  he  said.  "At  the  very  first  I  didna 
think  Strong  Mac  was  in  earnest.  But  after  I  warmed 
him.  He  owned  himsel'  that  my  sixth  and  fourteenth 
were  fine  an'  searchin'  for  the  conscience.  An'  mind  ye, 
that  was  a  heap  for  Strong  Mac  to  allow !" 

"An'  what  ye  gat — was  it  awfu'  sair?"  they  asked. 

Jock  Fairies  silently  exhibited  his  palms. 

"I'll  no'  be  able  to  lift  a  preen  aff  the  floor  for  a  day  or 
two,  I'm  thinkin' !"  he  said,  not  without  some  reasonable 
pride. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  WITH  GRAVECLOTHES. 

"FATHER/"  Adora  Gracie  said,  coming  gently  to  the  old 
man's  bedside — an  old  man  who  was  yet  not  old  in  years — 
"are  you  asleep  ?" 

The  Dominie  turned  his  head  toward  her  slowly.  His 
eyes  were  wet,  but  he  did  not  answer. 

"What  is  wrang,  father  ?"  she  cried,  kneeling  by  the 
bedside.  "Tell  your  Dora  what  it  is !" 

It  was  not  the  maudlin  repentance  of  the  "day  after," 
but  rather  the  deeper  remorse  of  the  physically  weak, 
which  made  the  schoolmaster  reply,  "I  have  been  but  an 
ill  father  to  you,  my  bairn.  Pray  God  that  ye  may  ere 
long  find  a  home  of  your  own,  where  my  sins  will  be  pow- 
erless to  follow  you !" 

The  girl  took  Donald  Gracie  about  the  neck. 

"You  must  not — indeed,  you  must  not,"  she  said.  "It 
is  wicked  of  you  to  speak  like  that.  I  will  never  leave 
you,  father.  I  want  no  home  but  where  you  are." 

The  Dominie  waved  his  hand  toward  the  window. 

"Sit  ye  there,  Dora,"  he  said,  gently.  "Let  the  light 
fall  on  your  face.  I  would  speak  with  you.  I  am  weak 
— very  weak  and  ill.  But  in  my  weakness  I  have  been 
made  to  see  things  that  formerly  were  hid  from  me." 

The  Dominie  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  long  at  his 
daughter  with  an  eager,  inquiring  gaze. 

"Aye,"  he  said  at  last,  "surely  you  are  of  my  father's 
folk,  even  as  I,  to  my  sorrow,  took  after  my  mother's 
kind.  No,  keep  still  a  little  longer.  You  have  the  brow 
low  and  broad,  the  determined  mouth,  the  head  thrown 
back,  which  all  the — all  my  father's  kin  possess !" 


46  STRONG  MAC 

"And  my  own  mother?"  inquired  his  daughter.  "You 
never  speak  to  me  of  her." 

"She  is  as  the  angels  in  heaven,"  said  Donald  Grade. 
"Praise  God  that  she  was  taken  away  from  the  things  that 
have  come  to  pass." 

"Am  I  like  her  ?"  said  Adora,  with  a  hopeful  accent. 

"Whiles — whiles,"  said  the  Dominie,  softly.  "When  ye 
are  sleeping,  or  when  ye  sit  on  the  stoup  and  hearken  to! 
the  mavises,  it  comes  to  me  that  ye  hae  a  gliff  of  her.  But  | 
it  passes.  It  passes.  No,  I  cannot  say  you  are  like  your  j 
mother.  Ye  are  a  Balgracie  from  snood  to  shoe-sole,  if  I 
ever  there  was  one !" 

"A  what,  father?" 

The  accent  of  astonishment  in  the  girl's  voice  recalled 
the  Dominie  to  himself. 

"A  Gracie — I  said  Gracie !"  he  answered,  quickly. 

"But  you  said — Bal-gracie,  father." 

"Did  I  ?  I  was  not  thinking,"  said  her  father,  wearily. 
"The  name  is  used  both  ways  where  I  come  from !" 

"Where  was  it  that  you  married  my  mother?"  the  girl 
went  on,  resolved  once  for  all  to  be  at  the  heart  of  the 
secret. 

"In  the  north — far  to  the  northward,"  he  answered 
her ;  "and  when  she  was  lost  to  me,  I  came  hither  to  leave 
the  past  behind  me!" 

Adora  thought  it  over  and  then  said,  "Was  it  after  my 
mother  that  I  was  called  Adora  ?  There  is  no  such  name 
hereaway !" 

"No,"  answered  the  Dominie,  "not  after  your  mother, 
but  after  a  great-aunt — the  sister  of  my  father.  It  is  an 
old  family  name." 

"And  are  your  people  all  dead  ?" 

The  Dominie  lifted  his  hand,  like  one  who  is  about  to 
beat  time  to  a  slow  tune. 

"Dead — dead — all  dead,"  he  murmured.  And  then 
lower  he  added,  "Dead  to  me !"  But  the  girl  took  only 
the  letter  of  his  words.  She  left  the  window  and,  com- 
ing near,  seated  herself  beside  him  on  the  little  stool. 


BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  47 

"Dear,"  she  said,  patting  him  on  the  thin  hair  above  his 
temples,  "what  does  it  matter  ?  You  have  me  to  look  after 
I  you.  Why,  I  kept  the  school  to-day.  Would  you  like 
to  hear  how  ?" 

And  without  giving  him  time  to  deny  her,  she  began  to 
tell  him  the  wonderful  history  of  the  day  of  the  plough- 
|  ing  match,  from  which  all  after  events  in  the  history  of 
Lowran  school  were  dated. 

The  Dominie  listened,  then  presently  he  smiled.  After 
a  while  he  laughed  outright. 

"What  was  the  'maxie'  Roy  McCulloch  made?"  he 
asked. 

The  girl  told  him. 

"Umm,"  growled  the  Dominie,  "he's  no  great  scholar 
to  make  a  speaking  about,  but  he  kens  better  than  that !" 

As  the  tale  went  on,  the  schoolmaster  steadily  regarded 
his  daughter.  New  ideas  were  rising  in  his  heart.  He 
had  thought  her  but  a  child,  and  lo !  he  realised  that  in  a 
little  while  others  would  be  looking  under  the  brim  of 
her  sunbonnet. 

"How  old  are  you,  Dora?"  he  asked  presently,  inter- 
rupting the  tale  of  the  repentance  of  Roy  McCulloch. 

"Nearly  sixteen,"  she  answered,  with  the  cheerful  pre- 
viousness  of  youth  as  it  looks  forward  across  the  years. 

"Ah,"  sighed  the  Dominie,  "it  will  come  all  too  soon." 

"What  will  come,  father?"  said  the  girl.  "What  has 
come  to  you  ?" 

"My  death-warrant !" 

The  girl  rose  hastily. 

"Are  you  ill,  father?"  she  said  hurriedly.  "Have  you 
had  the  pain  again  ?" 

Donald  Gracie  took  his  daughter  by  the  hand  and  made 
her  sit  down  again. 

"No,"  he  said,  softly.  "I  would  not  be  selfish.  But 
the  day  you  leave  me,  that  day  shall  be  as  a  death-warrant 
to  me." 

"But  I  will  never  leave  you,  father,"  said  Adora  Gracie, 


48  STRONG  MAC 

anxiously.     "All  I  want  is  just  to  bide  and  make  you 
happy." 

Then  she  tried  cajolery. 

"What  a  'grumpus'  of  a  Pater  ^Eneas  it  is !"  she  cried, 
slapping  -his  palm  with  her  finger  tips.  "Always  making 
troubles  for  itself.  Stay,  I  will  bring  it  a  dish  of  tea  and 
— some  of  the  scones  it  likes !  Then  we  will  see  if  it  can 
still  be  ungrateful  and  'grumpus'  to  its  only  daughter." 

As  she  scudded  out  of  the  room  the  Dominie  lay  watch-! 
ing  her.  The  ache  of  a  wasted  life,  the  unavailing  sorrow! 
of  a  past  not  to  be  recalled,  was  eating  into  his  soul.  Yet| 
even  in  the  throes  of  remorse  he  looked  several  times  at  a! 
chest  of  drawers  which  filled  up  the  space  between  the! 
window  and  the  door.  Once  he  half  rose  from  his  bed,j 
and  immediately  fell  back  again,  with  a  bitter  expression 
of  anger  and  disgust  upon  his  face. 

"No — no,"  he  said  to  himself,  "surely  I  cannot  be  such! 
a  hound.  Better  far  that  I  should  take  a  pistol  and  shootj 
myself.  There  is  no  strength  or  manhood  in  me.  If  1 1 
cannot  keep  the  door  of  my  heart,  why  should  I  live  toj 
bring  disgrace  on  her?" 

Presently  like  a  sunbeam  Adora  Gracie  came  dancing; 
in,  teacup  in  hand. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  cried,  "just  as  you  love  it!  This  will 
teach  you  to  be  thankful  that  you  have  a  wise  woman  to 
look  after  you.  Drink  it  hot,  'grumpus/  and  watch  me| 
dust !" 

So  saying,  she  began  to  go  over  the  whole  room  sys- 
tematically, the  backs  and  bottoms  of  chairs  included. 
Then  came  tops  of  pictures,  the  little  ledges  of  drawer 
mouldings,  then  crevices  and  corners  which  no  human 
eye  could  reach — for  she  was  one  who  dusts  for  con- 
science' sake,  not  to  have  praise  of  women.  While  at  her 
work,  the  tongue  of  Adora  Gracie  ran  all  the  time  on  this 
topic  and  on  that.  She  told  again  with  fresh  details  the 
story  of  the  ploughing  match,  speaking  of  the  victory  of 
Strong  Mac  with  something  like  prideful  exultation,  then 
humorously  of  his  repentance  and  concerning  the  unex- 


BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  49 

ampled  duet  of  vengeance  played  by  him  and  Jock  Fairies, 
till  Donald  Gracie  shook  with  laughter  in  his  bed. 

Thus  his  daughter  wiled  him  out  of  himself  with  the 
witchery  of  her  tongue  and  the  imitations  with  which  she 
interspersed  her  narrative.  Finally  she  went  into  the 
dark  schoolhouse  and  brought  out  Roy's  new  stock  of  ash- 
plants,  of  which  two  already  showed  signs  of  wear  and 
tear.  The  old  man  laughed  aloud. 

"Ye  are  a  witch,  Dora/'  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "I 
fear  me  these  lightsome  ways  of  yours  will  cause  heart- 
ache to  many." 

The  girl  held  up  her  hands  in  real  dismay. 

"  'Deed,  then,  faither,"  she  said,  dropping  into  the  ver- 
nacular, "but  ye  are  dreadsome  hard  to  please.  Hand- 
ache  and  back-ache  have  I  caused  in  plenty  this  day,  but 
heart-ache  is  not  on  my  conscience !" 

The  Dominie  shook  his  finger  at  her  with  an  air  that 
said,  "Bide  a  wee !" 

"And  now,"  she  cried,  "I  will  leave  you.  You  are  to 
go  straight  to  sleep,  and  you  will  be  all  well  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  doctor  said  so.  I  will  come  in  to  bid  my  old 
'grumpus'  good-night !" 

She  ran  out  again,  and  the  dusk  settled  down  upon  the 
chamber  of  Donald  Gracie.  The  solitary  candle  made  a 
point  of  illumination  so  bright  that  all  the  rest  of  the 
room  was  sunk  in  blackness  of  darkness. 

The  Dominie  moved  uneasily.  He  seemed  to  be  re- 
peating something  to  himself,  which  might  have  been  a 
prayer  or  some  resolve  put  into  words  to  give  it  greater 
binding  force  upon  the  man's  will. 

It  was  a  much  more  sedate  maiden  who  returned  in  her 
night  garments  to  say  good-night,  a  shawl  round  her 
shoulders  which  the  Dominie  recognised  as  having  been 
about  her  mother's  when  she  died.  To  the  child's  sim- 
plicity it  was  but  a  wrap  in  which  to  slip  upon  occasion 
into  her  father's  room.  To  Donald  Gracie  it  became  a 
symbol  of  the  black  robe  with  which  Fate  had  enfolded 
and  destroyed  his  life. 


50  STRONG  MAC 

Without  any  prelude,  according  to  her  invariable  cus- 
tom since  she  was  a  child,  Adora  Gracie  knelt  at  her 
father's  side  to  say  her  prayers.  Often  in  years  past  she 
had  said  them  at  the  knee  of  a  man  rocking  helplessly  in 
his  chair,  or  dropping  maudlin  tears  upon  her  hair.  But 
the  Angel  of  the  Presence,  that  one  who  doth  always  be- 
hold the  face  of  God,  had  been  quick  to  draw  a  veil  of  mer- 
ciful darkness  between,  so  that  the  innocent  had  not  been 
offended. 

To-night  Donald  Gracie,  the  unfrocked  clergyman,  the 
secret  drunkard,  laid  his  hand  on  his  daughter's  head  as 
she  prayed.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  window  through 
which  the  night  looked  in  on  the  white-robed  figure  kneel- 
ing by  the  bedside,  and  on  the  grey  old  man  lying  open- 
eyed,  rigid,  with  doom  written  on  his  countenance. 

Then  Adora  rose  up,  kissed  her  father  on  the  forehead, 
said  "Good-night,  'grumpus' — call  me  if  you  need  me !" 

And  so  went  her  way  to  her  narrow  cot  in  the  closet 
overlooking  the  garden. 

In  five  minutes  she  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  tired 
and  the  conscience-free,  but  Donald  Gracie  lay  long  listen- 
ing to  the  drip-drip  of  the  tall  pines  on  the  leaden  roof  of 
the  porch,  as  the  moisture  collected  on  the  needles  and  fell 
slowly — plop-plop,  regular  and  heavy  as  the  ticking  of  a 
minster  clock. 

A  bird  came  and  nestled  against  the  sill.  The  ivy  on 
the  wall  tapped  the  pane.  Over  the  fields  the  Gatehouse 
dog  explained  to  all  the  hills  that  he  was  alone  and  very 
sorrowful.  There  was  not  yet  a  moon  to  bay  at,  so  he 
bayed  because  of  that. 

Plop-plop!  It  was  dreary,  indeed,  thought  the  Dom- 
inie. Besides,  it  was  chill  outside.  On  such  a  night  one 
might  easily  take  one's  death  from  cold.  And  if  so,  what 
would  come  of  that  girl  ?  Moreover,  his  head  ached  and 
he  could  not  go  to  sleep.  Yet  sleep  he  must.  What  to 
do?  Yes,  there  was  one  thing.  There  in  the  bottom 
drawer,  at  the  near  corner.  He  knew  he  could  find  it  in 
the  dark  without  troubling  any  one ! 


BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  51 

Donald  Grade  was  half  out  of  bed,  when  through  his 
soul  darted  the  rending  illumination  of  sudden  self-knowl- 
edge. It  was  a  voice  from  heaven,  like  the  flashing  of  the 
lightning  of  the  Lord's  anger  from  the  east  to  the  west. 

"Oh,  thou  lost  to  shame,  complete  in  sin/'  it  seemed 
to  say.  "What?  So  soon  after  the  oath  sworn,  with  the 
sound  of  the  child's  prayer  yet  upon  thine  ear !  And  yet 
thou  would  bind  thyself  more  hopelessly  in  the  Bondage. 
Donald  Balgracie — once  more  beware — lest  God  forget 
to  be  gracious !" 

And  with  a  shuddering  sigh,  the  Dominie  sank  back  on 

his  bed  and  lay  still. 

******* 

Long  he  abode  motionless.  Whether  or  not  he  prayed, 
no  human  being  save  himself  can  know.  If  he  did,  the 
devil  had  his  hook  in  every  petition.  They  could  not  rise 
upon  the  wings  of  insincerity.  The  heart  denied  what  the 
lips  craved. 

There  was  silence  in  the  darkened  chamber.  The  bed 
creaked.  There  was  silence  again.  Then  a  bird  of  the 
night  flew  heavily  against  the  window,  and  a  man  at  busi- 
ness with  a  drawer  in  the  corner  uttered  a  sharp,  startled 
cry. 

A  white  figure,  tall  and  slim,  stood  in  the  open  door, 
holding  aloft  a  lighted  candle.  Beneath  knelt  the  man  who 
had  prayed,  in  his  hand  the  Enemy  of  his  Soul. 

"Oh,  father,"  cried  the  girl,  "and  you  promised !" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  SOUR  MANNA  OF  REVENGE. 

THERE  is  no  hero  worship  like  that  of  a  small  boy  for  a 
great.     It  passes  the  love  of  woman  in  this  that  there  i 
no  expectation  of  return  in  it.     Toleration  is  all  that  i 
expected.     Personal  chastisement  only  increases  the  fer- 
vour of  the  worshipper.     Neglect,  ill  words,  blows,  are 
so  many  love  tokens,  fuel  to  feed  the  flames  of  adoration. 

In  the  Lowran  school  there  were  at  least  twenty  boys 
who  were  willing  to  be  slaves  and  foot  runners  to  Strong 
Mac.  But  only  one  of  these  had  the  necessary  freedom 
of  action  to  enable  him  to  follow  the  god  of  his  idolatry 
from  point  to  point,  ready  to  appear  or  to  vanish,  to  fetch 
or  to  carry,  to  speak  or  to  be  silent,  according  to  the  will 
of  the  master. 

This  boy  was  Daid  the  Deil,  son  of  Crob  McRobb,  the 
good-for-nothing  scapegrace  and  poacher-in-ordinary  to 
the  village  of  Lowran. 

Daid  had  remarkable  advantages.  He  was  not  required 
to  be  present  at  certain  hours  for  meals.  Indeed,  that 
would  have  been  often  a  work  of  supererogation.  For 
in  Crob  McRobb's  house  the  meals  had  a  way  of  not  being 
there  either. 

Daid  therefore  dined,  as  he  lived,  lightly  and  at  large. 
A  puddock-stool  (so  that  it  did  not  grow  in  a  wood  or  on 
a  rotten  tree)  would  serve  to  fill  a  vacancy.  Daid  had  a 
rule  with  regard  to  all  mushrooms  and  toadstools — which 
he  communicated  to  his  companions  as  follows : 

"Lathies,  it's  like  this — I  comes  to  a  muckle  yin.  I  looks 
him  ower.  Gin  he's  spotty  abune  or  greeny  aneath,  I  hae 


THE  SOUR  MANNA  OF  REVENGE  53 

nae  mair  trokin'  wi'  him.  But  if  he's  an  ordinary,  sappy, 
hairmless-lookin'  animal,  I  juist  eats  a  lump  o'  him,  an' 
lets  a  wee  bit  gang  doon  my  throat,  an'  gin  it  begins  to 
burn  as  if  I  had  swallied  a  red  pepper — faith,  I  mak' 
straight  for  the  nearest  burn,  and  there  I  drink  as  muckle 
water  as  I  can  haud.  There's  maybe  learnit  folk  that  kens 
a  better  way,  but  that's  guid  eneuch  for  Daid !  Ye  needna 
often  gang  hungry  if  ye  ken  that !" 

But  this  day  of  the  Lowran  ploughing-match  Daid 
McRobb  had  known  that,  soon  or  late,  he  would  fare  more 
royally  than  upon  puddock-stools.  He  would  go  up  to 
the  Holm  and  Jock  Fairies  would  give  him  broken  meats. 
Or  if  Jock  would  not — if  (as  Daid  the  Deil  expressed  it) 
"Jock  took  the  sturdy" — he,  Daid  the  Deil,  would  provide 
the  broken  meats  for  himself.  If  they  were  still  whole 
meats  he  would  break  them.  The  boy  had  all  the  keen 
shiftfulness  of  a  village  outcast,  the  son  of  a  petty 
poacher,  an  annexer  of  other  people's  property  in  a  small 
way,  a  crafty  encroacher  upon  other  people's  poultry 
yards — always  in  a  small  way. 

Daid  had  been  all  these  things  in  his  time,  but  (bar  the 
poaching,  which  he  pursued  in  the  spirit  of  an  academical 
exercise)  he  had  decided  long  ago  that  (comparative) 
honesty  was  the  best  policy.  Blackmail  was  his  partic- 
ular line.  He  could  not  influence  the  conduct  of  his 
father,  but  he  could  find  out  where  he  had  been.  Some- 
times Daid  could  even  assort  the  plunder  of  the  day  as  his 
father  lay  asleep,  overcome  with  the  fatigues  of  an  ardu- 
ous profession,  together  with  too  much  "Lucky  Green- 
tree,"  and  restore  the  property  of  protected  persons  to 
them — whether  plough-culters,  articles  of  harness,  corn- 
measures,  sieves,  or  game  chickens  and  "kain  hens"  kept 
in  mew  for  the  next  instalment  of  the  Laird's  dues. 

Daid's  terms  were  not  out  of  the  way.  He  was  no  Rob 
Roy  from  yont  the  Lenfiox  line.  A  bite  and  a  sup  at  your 
back  door,  a  warm  corner  by  the  kitchen  fire,  an  occa- 
sional bed  in  the  barn  among  the  sacks  when  his  father 
had  barred  him  out  of  the  tumble-down  outhouse  he  called 


54  STRONG  MAC 

home — these  made  the  modest  sum  of  Daid's  requirements. 
But  withal  he  was  acquiring  the  rudiments  of  a  character. 
He  did  not  now  find  himself  chased  out  of  a  farmyard 
upon  sight,  as  had  been  the  way  when  he  was  no  better 
than  "that  loon  o'  Crob  McCrob's."  He  became  "that 
limb,  wee  Daid" — which  is  a  very  different  thing,  the  di- 
minutive being  as  good  as  a  bowl  of  porridge  to  him  in 
most  places. 

On  this  day  of  the  ploughing  match  Daid  had  hovered 
in  the  offing  of  his  divinity's  favour  all  day,  watching  him, 
thinking  how  great,  how  noble,  how  incomparable,  was 
Strong  Mac.  His  eyes  were  full  of  adoration.  His  very 
soul  was  longing  to  be  taken  notice  of,  even  if  only  to  the 
extent  of  having  the  attached  body  apostrophised  and 
kicked  out  of  the  way.  It  chanced,  however,  that  Strong 
Mac,  had,  vulgarly  speaking,  other  fish  to  fry.  It  was,  for 
instance,  nearly  three  of  the  clock  on  this  November  day 
before  Strong  Mac  had  made  his  peace  with  Adora  Gracie, 
and  with  many  promises  to  be  "on  hand"  in  the  morning, 
had  swung  the  full  satchel  across  his  back  and  taken  the 
road  up  the  glen  toward  the  House  of  Muir,  where  he 
lived  with  his  father  and  his  brother  James.  He  was 
alone,  as  he  expected  to  be,  Jamie  McCulloch  having  gone 
"wi'  the  lasses,"  as  was  his  custom.  To  be  particular,  the 
elder  had  accompanied  Miss  Charlie  Webster  home,  for 
the  classical  purpose  of  carrying  her  bag  of  books. 

It  was  ten  miles  to  the  House  of  Muir  by  such  road  as 
there  was,  a  road  that  a  deer-stalking  pony  would  have 
shied  at.  But  Strong  Mac  did  not  propose  to  trouble  the 
road.  He  knew  better  than  that.  By  taking  the  face  of 
the  fell,  striking  into  Pluckamin  Cleuch  and  following  the 
left  bank  of  the  burn,  he  would  come  to  a  certain  inconspic- 
uous outcrop  of  rock,  and  under  that  rock,  wrapped  in  an 
old  blanket  and  touched  with  grease  against  the  damp,  he 
would  find  a  gun.  It  had  been  hidden  by  himself,  and 
even  if  there  was  nothing  to  waste  powder  on  in  the  dusk, 
he  had  a  hare  or  two  snugly  concealed  which  he  had  shot 
in  the  morning. 


THE  SOUR  MANNA  OF  REVENGE  55 

The  pheasant  he  had  brought  to  school  with  intent  to 
give  it  to  Adora  Grade,  but  the  events  of  the  day  had 
tried  that  young  lady's  temper.  So  when  it  was  offered 
after  the  escapade  of  the  ploughing  match,  she  had  re- 
plied, "Keep  your  poached  pheasants  for  them  that  want 
them !  I  dinna !" 

"It  will  make  something  nice  for  the — for  Mr.  Gracie !" 
Strong  Mac  suggested. 

But  with  a  woman,  as  Roy  had  yet  to  learn,  repentance 
and  punishment  do  not  clear  scores  as  they  do  with  a  man. 
These  remain  to  be  brought  forward  again  upon  occa- 
sion, as  in  French  criminal  practice,  "by  way  of  preju- 
dice/' So  again  Adora  refused. 

"I  am  obleeged  to  you,  Roy  McCulloch,"  she  said,  "but 
my  father  does  very  well  with  what  I  have  provided  for 
him — and  I  have  the  writing  copies  to  set !" 

And  this  being  of  the  nature  of  a  hint  tangible,  caused 
Strong  Mac  to  set  his  bonnet  on  his  head  and  stride  away, 
with  a  muttered  "Good-e'en  to  ye,  then !" 

Now  if  Adora  had  known  to  what  dangers  she  was  ex- 
posing her  brave  and  unselfish  ally  she  would  not,  even  for 
the  sake  of  discipline,  have  made  her  declinature  so  posi- 
tive. But  this,  of  course,  was  out  of  her  power. 

There  was,  however,  one  who  did  know.  And  she — 
was  also  of  the  sex  which  will  "cast  up"  to  itself  rather 
than  not  at  all. 

The  vengeance  of  Charlotte  Webster  had  soured  upon 
her  early.  Well  may  the  Scriptures  declare,  "Vengeance 
is  mine,  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord."  For  to  most  of  the 
breed  of  men  revenge  is,  like  the  Israelites'  desert  manna, 
meat  that  will  not  keep.  To  the  more  northerly  nations,  at 
least,  a  blow  stricken  on  the  spot  is  more  natural  than  the 
slow  going-down  of  sun  after  sun  upon  the  wrath  of  man. 

Charlotte  Webster  had  spoken  to  her  cousin,  the  head 
game-watcher,  solely  from  the  instinct  of  a  moment  of 
bitterness.  When  she  came  back  to  school  in  the  after- 
noon she  had  fully  intended  to  tell  Roy  what  she  had  done, 
both  as  to  his  powder  flask  and  also  how  it  had  "slipped 


56  STRONG  MAC 

out"  about  the  pheasant.  But  Strong  Mac's  absence,  and 
then  the  exciting  scene  of  mutual  punishment,  had  unset- 
tled her  ideas  again.  She  swerved  from  her  purpose. 

"He  wad  do  a'  that  for  her,"  she  repeated  over  and 
over  to  herself,  "and  he  wad  shake  my  hand  aff  his  arm, 
as  if  it  were  an  adder  or  a  puddock !  I'll  let  him  see !" 

This  mood  held  till  letting-out  time,  when,  as  Roy 
had  called  kindly,  "Good  nicht  t'ye,  Chairlie !"  she  was 
again  shaken  by  doubts  and  decided  to  wait  for  him  at  the 
gate.  But  Roy  being  (as  we  know)  busy  fleeching  with 
Adora  to  accept  his  pheasant,  did  not  come  out  so  sharply 
as  usual — and  his  brother  James  did. 

James  was  a  year  older  than  Roy,  and  of  a  different 
nature.  Less  strong  physically  than  Roy,  he  had  more 
quiet  cunning — "a  good  lad,"  his  father  called  him,  "but 
speeritless,  and  a  naitural  wheedler  after  weemen !" 

The  judgment  was  severe,  coming  from  the  old  cot- 
tier of  the  House  of  Muir,  but  this  night  the  trend  of 
affairs  seemed  to  point  to  his  father's  discernment  of  his 
elder  son's  character. 

"Come  on,  Chairlie,"  said  James  McCulloch.  "What 
are  ye  waitin'  for — to  see  Roy?  He'll  no'  be  oot  this 
while,  I'll  warrant.  He'll  be  flairdyin'  up  the  Dominie's 
lassie.  It's  weel  he's  satisfiet.  I  wadna  be.  Come  on, 
Chairlie,  unless  ye  want  to  spoil  sport!  And  I  ken  a 
better  than  that — a  bonny  lass  like  you,  the  bonniest  i'  the 
pairish !  Or  if  ye  do  want  to  speak  to  Roy,  tell  me,  an'  I'll 
cairry  your  message — unless  it  be  that — " 

Here  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"It's  a  lee— I  dinna !"  cried  the  girl,  flushing.  "Neither 
him  nor  you,  Jamie  McCulloch,  nor  ony  McCulloch  that 
ever  trod  grass  aneath  their  muckle  feet." 

"Aweel !"  said  Jamie,  philosophically,  "sae  muckle  the 
better.  For  oor  Roy's  bespoken,  and  forbye,  he  cares 
mair  for  a  sawmon  i'  the  weil,  or  a  troot  oot  o'  the  burn, 
than  for  a'  the  lasses  in  ten  pairishes !" 

"To  say  naething  o'  the  Laird  o'  Lowran's  pheasants/1 
interjected  Charlotte,  with  a  curl  of  the  lip. 


THE   SOUR  MANNA  OF   REVENGE        57 

Now  Jamie  McCulloch  had  grave  faults,  but  lack  of 
fidelity  to  his  family  and  traditions  was  not  one  of  them. 
He  kept  his  "flairdyin'  "  (as  his  father  called  it)  and  his 
business  relations  in  separate  and  water-tight  compart- 
ments. 

"What  ken  ye  aboot  the  Laird's  pheasants?"  he  said 
quickly,  with  a  slight  change  in  his  voice  apparent  to  the 
ear  feminine  of  Charlotte  Webster. 

"Me?"  she  answered  at  once.  "I  ken  naething.  I  was 
juist  thinkin'  what  a  bonny  bird  a  pheasant  was.  My 
faither  minds  when  there  was  naething  in  the  countryside 
but  the  grouse  an'  the  paitricks  an'  the  muir  hens  %n' 
the— " 

"But  tell  me,  Chairlie,"  interrupted  James,  "what  ken 
ye  aboot  oor  Roy  an'  the  pheasants  ?" 

"I  heard,"  said  Charlotte  softly,  choosing  her  words, 
"that  whiles — that  it  is  weel  kenned — I  mean — " 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Roy's  brother,  with  some  of 
the  family  asperity.  "What  are  ye  keepin'  back?" 

Charlotte  Webster,  who  found  herself  bogged  among 
things  which  she  dared  not  confess,  had  recourse  to  weap- 
ons general. 

"I'll  greet  in  a  meenite,"  she  said,  with  eyes  already 
showery,  "gin  ye  speak  to  me  like  that,  Jamie  McCulloch. 
Now,  then!" 

"I'm  no'  speaking  to  ye  like  onything,  Chairlie,"  said 
Jamie,  recalling  himself  to  his  own  proper  methods,  and 
slipping  his  arm  round  the  girl's  plump  shoulder.  "I  am 
ower  fond  o'  ye.  But  tell  me  what  ye  ken — a'  ye  ken !" 

Now  the  first  of  these  things  Charlotte  would  attempt — 
the  other  was  altogether  beyond  her. 

"Weel,  ye  see,  Jamie,"  she  said,  reassured  by  her  posi- 
tion, "the  way  o't  is  this.  My  cousin  Jonathan  is  the 
head  keeper  at  Lowran,  an'  he  whiles  comes  to  oor  hoose 
to  see — my  mither." 

"And  you,  Charlotte,  ye  besom  ?"  inquired  James,  with 
tender  chiding. 


58  STRONG  MAC 

"Oh,  juist  daffin'!"  said  Charlotte,  with  conscientious 
carelessness. 

"I  ken  cousin's  daffin' !"  said  Jamie,  cunningly.  "But 
drive  on !" 

By  this  time  they  were  well  down  the  road  which  passes 
the  entrance  of  Pluckamin  Cleuch.  There  was  a  double 
turn  in  the  highway,  well  known  to  Miss  Webster  and  her 
various  escorts,  just  beyond  this  place.  Once  round  it, 
you  could  see  Miss  Webster's  family  mansion,  and  as  a 
consequence  (for  Mistress  Webster,  that  efficient  mother 
in  Israel,  needed  no  spectacles)  you  also  were  in  danger 
of  observation.  All  things  have  a  purpose.  The  pur- 
pose of  the  S-shape  on  the  road  will  now  be  apparent 
to  all. 

Charlotte  always  held  out  her  hand  for  her  bag  at  this 
place. 

"I'll  no'  trouble  ye  to  come  ony  farther,"  was  her  for- 
mula. "Ye  maun  be  tired  carryin'  a'  thae  books !" 

It  was  as  she  was  saying  this  that  a  gunshot  went  off  up 
in  the  wood.  Charlotte  dropped  the  bag  and  caught  at 
her  own  breast  with  one  hand. 

"Oh,  they  hae  gotten  him !"  she  cried.  "They  hae  shot 
Roy — an'  it's  my  faut !" 

"Hoot-toot!"  said  Jamie.  "It  will  be  a  keeper  lettin' 
drive  at  a  rabbit,  mair  like !  But  if  it's  Roy — he  is  brave 
an'  weel  able  to  look  after  himsel' !  Forbye  he  may  hae 
pickit  up  a  hare.  I  ken  he  took  his  gun  wi'  him  this 
mornin'." 

But  Charlotte  had  some  reasons  for  thinking  otherwise. 

"Oh,  no,  he's  deid — and  it's  me  that  killed  him!"  she 
cried,  passionately.  "I  poured  water  intil  his  pooder 
flask,  and — oh — oh — oh !" 

The  confession  ended  in  a  sobbing  remorse,  equally  sin- 
cere and  inarticulate. 

"Faith,  it's  true,"  said  Jamie  McCulloch.  "That  canna 
be  Roy's  shootin',  for  he  wad  never  bring  the  gun  sae  far 
doon  the  hill." 

And  so,  without  even  waiting  to  say  good-bye,  he  left 


THE  SOUR  MANNA  OF  REVENGE          59 

Charlotte  standing  forlornly  in  the  loop  of  the  road,  her 
school-bag  abandoned  among  the  muddy  leaves  in  front 
of  her,  and  her  eyes  strained  upon  the  dark  woods  of  the 
Cleuch  of  Pluckamin,  which  in  the  purple  gloaming  kept 
their  secret  impenetrable. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  CLEUCH  OF  PLUCKAMIN. 

Now  this  was  what  had  happened : 

Roy  McCulloch,  Daid's  Master  and  Lord,  strode  care- 
lessly on,  his  bag  with  the  rejected  pheasant  and  the 
wet  ammunition  flask  as  a  feather  on  his  broad  shoul- 
ders. He  cried  "Good  e'en"  to  one  or  two  men  in  the  act 
of  plunging  head-first  into  low  doorways,  stragglers 
mostly  from  the  ploughing  match  in  search  of  something 
comfortable. 

"Hae  ye  gotten  the  'Single-handed'  in  your  pooch?" 
cried  one  as  Roy  passed  the  hedge  change-house  tenanted 
by  Lucky  Greentree.  "Come  in  here,  man,  an'  we'll  fill 
it  for  ye  wi'  something  stronger  than  moss-water!" 

But  Roy  had  forgotten  all  about  the  Cup  and  the 
ploughing  match,  and  strode  on  his  way  with  no  more 
than  an  acknowledging  wave  of  the  hand. 

Behind  him,  unseen  in  the  dusk,  dodged  and  ducked 
from  woodshed  to  pigstye,  from  midden-stead  to  cart- 
shed,  one  Daid  the  Deil,  Servant  and  Slave. 

Daid  never  raised  his  eyes  from  the  ground  as  he  made 
these  swallow-like  dashes.  He  was  elaborately  amusing 
himself,  that  was  all,  if  any  one  chanced  to  notice  him. 
He  gave  Joe  Maxwell's  pig  what  he  called  a  "pork"  in  the 
ribs  with  a  stick  just  to  hear  it  squeal,  and  was  half  way 
down  to  Harvy  Mason's  stables  before  the  pig's  owner 
could  hirple  to  the  door  and  shake  a  futile  fist  after  him. 
Arrived  at  the  stable,  he  went  to  the  exact  spar  to  which 
he  knew  "Tear-'em,"  Harvy  Mason's  big  white  mongrel, 
would  be  chained.  Harvy  was  the  Cairn  Edward  carrier, 


THE   CLEUCH   OF  PLUCKAMIN  61 

and  Tear-'em  walked  beneath  the  cart  and  lived  upon 

|  the  calves  of  the  public.     Daid  rattled  on  the  spars  and 

I  booed  through  at  Tear-'em  till  he  raged  himself  into  a 

blind  fury,  which  could  only  be  expressed  by  suffocating 

and  blood-curdling  grunts  deep  in  his  throat.  This  pleased 

Daid.     He  imitated  a  cat-fight,  and  hist-ed  Tear-'em  upon 

the  combatants. 

At  this  moment  Strong  Mac  turned  round.  For  any- 
j  thing  connected  with  the  feelings  of  an  animal  touched 
him.  He  recognised  the  "baited"  tones  of  Tear-'em,  and 
looked  back  to  discover  the  cause. 

Daid  the  Deil  was  balancing  a  hay-rake  on  his  nos^ 
with  elaborate  precautions.  Apparently  he  had  been  do- 
ing nothing  else  for  the  past  hour.  Innocence  exuded 
obviously  from  him.  Love  for  all  innocent  and  manly 
sports  was  in  the  lines  of  his  back.  But  Strong  Mac  was 
not  deceived.  He  knew  Daid  and — he  had  heard  the 
dog's  statement  of  the  case. 

"You,  Deil,"  he  cried,  "let  the  dog  alane,  or  Til  fair 
skin  ye  alive  the  morn !"  And  so  went  his  way,  sure  that 
he  would  be  obeyed. 

"There,  noo,"  said  Daid  to  himself  admiringly,  "he 
kenned  juist  as  weel  as  if  he  had  seen  me.  And  he'll  mind 
to  lick  me  for  it,  too,  the  morn.  He  never  forgets  ony- 
thing — na,  no'  him !" 

Thus  are  reputations  made  and  the  willing  worshipper 
built  up  in  his  faith.  At  the  foot  of  the  village  Strong 
Mac  struck  up  the  braeface,  vaulting  over  a  dry-stone 
dyke  and  making  straight  for  the  corner  of  the  Cleuch 
of  Pluckamin.  This  was  (and  is)  a  narrow  gorge, 
through  which  roars  the  drainage  of  the  Loch  of  Pluck- 
amin, a  large  and  sombre  sheet  of  water  on  the  flat  of  the 
moorland.  The  Cleuch  was  filled  from  end  to  end  with 
great  pines  that  stretched  their  green  spreading  crowns 
into  the  upper  air.  They  hid  their  root  in  crevices  of  the 
rock,  gripping  and  clutching  desperately  till  they  had 
made  good  their  footing  above  still  pool  and  roaring 
waterfall.  At  the  bottom  there  was  a  perilous  scramble 


62  STRONG  MAC 

of  a  footpath  along  the  edge  of  the  burn,  while  the  side 
of  the  gully  were  covered  with  a  tangle  of  alder  and  haze 
birch  and  bramble.  The  Cleuch  of  Pluckamin  was  n 
lady's  bowling-green.  The  wild  goat  and  the  hill  fo 
found  shelter  there,  and  under  its  water-worn  hoops  c 
rock,  smooth  and  glistening,  were  pools  and  weir 
unvisited  by  the  sun  from  January  to  December. 

Without  a  touch  of  fear  or  thought  of  danger,  Stron 
Mac  dipped  into  the  covert.  He  did  it  naturalb 
as  a  frog  drops  back  into  a  pond.  Roy  usually  varied  h 
route  homeward,  but  on  this  occasion  he  had  to  secui 
his  gun,  which  (as  we  know)  lay  hidden  at  the  uppe 
end  of  the  Cleuch,  just  where  it  opens  out  upon  the  bar 
brown  face  of  the  heather,  and  where  the  bushes  stop  sue 
denly,  as  if  cut  by  the  scythe. 

In  silence  Roy  moved  along  the  bottom  of  the  glen.  H 
was  a  hunter  by  nature  and  a  lifetime's  practice,  so  li 
could  advance  without  disturbing  the  droopy  birds  chii 
tering  out  their  discontent  with  the  damp  November  dri; 
zle  on  the  crotches  of  the  pines.  Blackbirds  and  thrushe 
they  were  mostly,  yammering  and  squabbling  like  schoc 
children  when  the  master's  back  is  turned.  On  the  oppc 
site  bank  an  outcast  starling,  a  rare  bird  in  Galloway  i 
those  times,  scolded  venomously,  while  a  storm-coc 
mocked  him  brutally  from  a  tree-top,  cat-calling  an 
sneering  after  his  kind  as  became  the  bully  of  the  wood 

Strong  Mac,  walking  on  feet  that  made  no  noise  an 
easing  the  branches  back  like  a  wild  animal,  they  minde 
not  at  all.  Yet  they  were  angry  about  something.  Som 
enemy  or  intruder  had  put  them  into  that  frame  of  mine 
Roy  McCulloch  stopped  and  listened.  He  saw  nothing 
He  heard  nothing,  but  borne  on  the  light  breeze  whic 
blew  down  the  Cleuch,  like  the  down-draught  of  a  chirr 
ney,  there  came — the  smell  of  burning  tobacco. 

That,  through  all  wild  places,  meant  but  one  thin 
— a  game-watcher!  Instantly  Mac  became  acutely  cor 
scious  of  the  pheasant  in  his  bag.  True,  he  had  not  she 
it  on  the  lands  .of  .the  Laird  of  Lowran,  but  upon  those  c 


THE  CLEUCH  OF  PLUCKAMIN  63 

Bennanbrack,  farther  up  the  water-side.     But  who  was 

there  to  prove  that?     Instead  of  returning  to  school  and 

|  Adora,  he,  Roy  McCulloch,  would  go  to  gaol  for  a  mere 

|  bird.     Had  it  been  a  couple  of  deer,  now,  that  would  have 

been  different — but  a  silly  lump  of  poultry. 

He  stood  considering.  The  smell  of  tobacco  came  more 
clearly.  He  could  distinctly  hear  footsteps  beneath  him 
down  the  Cleuch.  If  he  took  the  side  of  the  glen,  he 
would  be  trapped  at  the  top  without  doubt.  They  would 
have  watchers  posted  there. 

Then  upon  the  moorland  lad  there  fell  the  intense  hatred 
of  the  hillman  for  the  wooded  glens,  which  to  him  are  so, 
many  traps. 

"They  wad  never  hae  gotten  me  on  the  side  o'  Bennan- 
brack, nor  yet  amang  the  clints  o'  the  Grennoch !" 

Sticks  were  breaking  under  clumsy  treading  down  in 
the  deeps  of  the  Cleuch.  There  came  a  whistling  rush  of 
blackbirds,  angry  at  being  disturbed,  the  storm-cock 
among  them  in  a  royal  fluster,  but  still  leading  the  bad 
language. 

Suddenly  something  dropped  from  a  tree  right  in  front 
— a  monkey  to  the  eye,  thus  a-swing  among  the  branches 
— a  boy  presently,  even  Daid  McRobb,  still  semi-arboreal 
in  his  habits. 

"Wheesht!"  he  whispered,  taking  Strong  Mac  by  the 
arm,  all  in  a  tremble  of  fear  and  importance.  "They're 
doon  yonder,  three  o'  them,  followin'  ye !  And  Jona- 
than Grier  is  waitin'  wi'  some  mair  at  the  Cleuch  head. 
Gie  me  the  bag — quick !" 

Roy  hesitated.  He  could  not  bring  this  boy  into  his 
stupidities,  nor  let  him  bear  the  consequences  of  his  mis- 
demeanours against  the  law. 

"Haste  ye,  Strong  Mac!"  hissed  Daid  in  his  ear.  "I 
ken  this  wood — ye  dinna.  Gie  me  the  bag!" 

The  instant  the  strap  was  slipped  Daid  gave  it  a  double 
turn  about  his  thin  shoulders,  and  began  to  draw  himself 
up  into  the  tree  from  which  he  had  descended.  Where 
he  went  after  that  no  man  knoweth.  He  had  often  before 


64  STRONG  MAC 

crossed  the  Cleuch  from  side  to  side  on  the  tree-tops,  with- 
out any  more  motive  than  to  find  out  whether  he  could 
do  it  or  not.  And  to-night  he  had  the  strongest  of  all 
earthly  (or  other)  motives  for  making  the  attempt — that 
he  might  please  Strong  Mac. 

Relieved  of  his  burden,  Roy  McCulloch  went  his  way 
up  the  glen,  whistling  easily,  the  noise  behind  him  grow- 
ing louder. 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  "muir-face,"  as  Roy  called 
it,  there  was  a  narrow  cut  where  a  fallen  boulder  had 
parted  in  two.  The  path  went  between  the  fragments. 

"That's  whaur  they'll  grip  me,"  thought  Strong  Mac. 
"I'll  hae  to  tak'  care  an'  keep  my  temper.  I  dinna  want  to 
be  pitten  in  the  gaol  for  mishandlin'  a  game-watcher  in 
the  dischairge  o'  his  duty!" 

As  he  predicted,  even  so  the  event  fell  out. 

Roy  had  passed,  whistling  "The  Wind  that  Shakes  the 
Barley,"  when  between  the  stones  three  or  four  men  fell 
upon  him,  some  catching  him  about  the  neck,  some  haul- 
ing the  legs  from  underneath  him,  while  yet  others  came 
crashing  through  the  trees  to  the  assistance  of  his  cap- 
tors, shouting,  "Hae  ye  gotten  him?" 

"Gotten  him?  Aye,"  growled  Jonathan  Grier,  the 
head  keeper,  "an'  deil's  hait  else.  That  lassie,  Chairlie 
Webster,  maun  hae  been  leein'  to  us,  the  besom.  Wait 
till  I  get  my  tongue  on  her !" 

By  this  time  Roy  had  been  allowed  to  sit  up,  his  captors 
standing  about  him  in  various  attitudes  of  disappointment. 

"What  are  ye  doin'  here?"  demanded  the  keeper,  with 
an  oath. 

"On  my  way  hame  frae  the  schule,"  Roy  answered, 
pleasantly.  "It's  mair  sheltered  on  a  nicht  like  this !" 

"Nane  o'  your  lip,"  retorted  the  keeper.  "Turn  oot 
your  pouches,  and  if  ye  hae  as  muckle  as  a  hare  grin  or  a 
bit  o'  brass  wire  on  ye,  by  my  faith  ye  shall  sleep  i'  the 
lock-up  this  nicht.  Ye  are  here  after  the  pheasants — we 
hae  had  information." 


THE  CLEUCH  OF  PLUCKAMIN  65 

"Ow  aye,"  said  Roy,  calmly,  "it's  easy  to  kill  pheasants 
wi'  a  Laitin  grammar — an'  this !" 

He  held  out  the  inscribed  Cup,  which  he  had  put  in  the 
large  inner  pocket  of  his  coat  to  keep  dry. 

"What's  that?"  demanded  another  voice  suddenly, 
that  of  the  young  man  with  the  brown  face  and  short 
tawny  beard  who  had  been  the  keeper's  companion,  but 
who  had  taken  no  part  in  the  struggle. 

"A  silver  cup,  sir!  He's  been  stealin'  frae  the  Big 
Hoose,  I'll  warrant !"  cried  the  keeper. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  the  bearded  man  in  a  tone  of  au- 
thority. 

The  Cup  was  handed  to  him.  He  scrutinised  it  in  the 
fading  twilight,  holding  it  to  the  level  of  his  eyes. 

"Why,  it's  the  Cup  I  gave  to  be  competed  for  at  the 
ploughing  match!"  he  said.  "Where  did  you  get  this, 
sirrah?" 

"I  won  it  at  the  ploughin'  match,"  said  Roy,  easily. 

"It's  the  Single-handed !  You  win  the  Single-handed ! 
That's  a  guid  yin !"  cried  Keeper  Jonathan. 

"Aye,  but  it's  true !  I  saw  him  do  it !"  interrupted  one 
of  the  men.  "I  didna  ken  it  was  this  lad  ye  war  after, 
Jonathan  Grier,  or  I  wad  never  hae  steered  step  to  catch 
him — no'  though  he  had  ta'en  twenty  back-loads  of  pheas- 
ants aff  your  grund — nesty  belly-fillin'  beasts  (savin' 
your  presence,  Laird) — that  do  naething  but  fatten  them- 
sel's  at  the  expense  o'  puir  tenants!" 

"Heartily  said,  Mains,"  replied  the  man  with  the  beard, 
good-humouredly.  "I'm  glad  to  hear  that  the  Cup  stays 
in  Lowran,  especially  since  Kirkanders  won  the  match! 
But  all  the  same,  I'm  glad  also  that  the  lad  is  carryin' 
home  a  silver  trophy  honestly  come  by,  rather  than  even 
one  back-load  of  my  pheasants." 

"Is  there  nocht  we  can  haud  him  for,  sir,"  groaned  the 
keeper,  "after  a'  this  gather  up?  It  will  be  a'  ower  the 
pairish  by  this  time  the  morn.  Oh,  that  misleart  lassie ! 
I  thocht  she  had  a  pick  at  him,  and  that  we  were  sure  to 


66  STRONG  MAC 

catch  him      She  lookit  that  mad  when  she  was  speakin' 
aboot  him !" 

"That  ye  never  can  tell  wi'  the  weemen,"  said  Mains, 

filling  his  pipe  philosophically. 

*  *  *  #  #  #  * 

It  was  curious  that  as  they  went  back  down  the  Cleuch, 
searching  for  a  safe  point  at  which  to  emerge  upon  the 
open  country,  several  of  Roy's  captors  were  struck  by 
large  branches,  fir  cones,  and  stones  which  rattled  down 
from  the  tree-tops  or  detached  themselves  from  the  pre- 
cipitous ledges  of  the  Cleuch.  At  last  Keeper  Jonathan 
Grier,  who  had  been  cocking  his  eye  aloft  ever  since  a  fir- 
cone ("the  size  of  a  pitatae-beetle,"  as  he  expressed  it) 
had  taken  him  convincingly  on  the  bridge  of  the  nose, 
lifted  his  gun  and  fired. 

Some  affirmed  that  they  heard  a  faint  scream,  but  noth- 
ing fell,  and  the  party  stood  wonderingly  silent.  The  top 
of  the  pine  tree  was  black  and  dense  against  the  sky. 

"What  did  ye  fire  at,  Jonathan — a  bogle  or  a  wildcat?" 

"Something  that  had  nae  richt  to  be  there,  I  wot,"  said 
Jonathan,  "wildcat  or  no  wildcat !" 

"Come  your  ways !"  said  the  new  Laird  of  Lowran.  "Ye 
just  saw  nothing  at  all !  But  there  will  be  a  drop  of  some- 
thing warm  for  ye  in  the  servants'  hall.  I'll  step  round 
and  order  it  to  be  sent  in.  Good-night !" 

"Guid-e'en  to  ye,  sir,  an*  your  verra  guid  health !" 


CHAPTER  X. 

OH,  THAT  IT  WERE  YESTERDAY ! 

THUS  it  was  that,  for  the  time  being,  Strong  Mac  es- 
caped from  the  fowler's  snare.  He  extricated  himself  out 
of  the  wood  at  the  Cleuch  head,  and  then  lay  long  with 
his  breast  on  the  heather,  and  his  ears,  as  he  said,  "laid 
back  on  his  neck  with  listening,"  before  he  ventured  to 
return  for  his  gun.  Having  secured  that,  he  crept 
quietly  to  the  edge  of  the  Cleuch,  peering  down  into  its 
dark  depths,  and  giving  the  whistle  by  which  he  knew 
Daid  would  recognise  him  if  he  had  not  already  gone 
home.  An  owl  hooted,  but  presently  the  bird  itself  passed 
close  to  him  with  a  soft  woof  of  feathers  and  a  glint  of  a 
face  like  a  white  mask.  Other  answer  there  was  none. 

Then  over  the  broad  surface  of  the  moorland  Strong 
Mac  set  out  for  home  with  the  long  equable  lope  of  the 
wolf,  easy,  elastic,  untiring.  So  perfect  was  now  his 
local  knowledge  that  sometimes  in  the  utter  darkness  he 
would  swerve  a  few  yards  to  the  right  or  the  left,  so  as  to 
take  the  leap  over  a  moss-hag  at  an  easier  place.  Yet  all 
he  had  to  guide  him  in  such  a  case  was  the  feel  of  the 
ground  beneath  his  feet ! 

As  he  neared  the  march  dyke  of  the  tiny  freehold  of 
House  of  Muir,  Roy  saw  the  bright  light  streaming  from 
the  kitchen  door  out  over  the  scrap  of  "park."  A  lan- 
tern was  flitting  this  way  and  that  among  the  outhouses. 
Roy  McCulloch  whistled  three  times.  The  lantern  stopped 
suddenly,  as  if  the  bearer  listened,  then  it  was  waved  three 
times  in  reply.  All  was  well.  That  was  Jamie's  signal. 
His  father  would  be  indoors  preparing  the  supper. 


68  STRONG  MAC 

"Where  in  the  creation  hae  ye  been?"  cried  Jamie  in  a 
burst.  "I  heard  a  shot  let  aff  an'  ran  up  the  Cleuch,  but  I 
cam'  on  the  keepers  rowtin'  through  the  bushes  like  sae 
mony  elephants,  an'  was  obligated  to  keep  the  upper  side 
so  as  to  hae  the  muir  ahint  me  in  case  o'  need !" 

After  a  brief  explanation  Roy  helped  his  brother  to 
finish  the  foddering  of  the  cattle,  and  of  the  two  shaggy 
ponies  which  represented  all  the  horseflesh  of  the  House 
of  Muir.  Folk  asserted  privately  that  these  last  were 
used  for  bringing  in  the  "winter  provend,"  meaning  there- 
by roe  deer  killed  on  other  people's  property.  But  Sharon 
McCulloch  (who  certainly  ought  to  have  known)  stated 
that  "the  shelties  were  the  means,  under  providence  and  a 
guid  hazel  rung,  o'  bringing  in  the  fuel  frae  the  flowe — 
the  peats  that  the  lairds  hereabouts  wad  deny  to  a  puir 
man  that  didna  ken  his  richts.  Whilk  man  is  no'  Sharon 
McCulloch  o'  the  Hoose  o'  Muir!" 

Then  the  young  men  went  within  doors.  A  bright  fire 
was  burning  in  a  wide  fireplace.  Pots  and  kettles  were 
round  the  walls  in  burnished  rows.  A  pan  was  frizzling 
cheerfully  from  a  swing-bar.  There  was  an  odour  of 
"champit"  potatoes  in  the  land,  which  revealed  to  Roy 
for  the  first  time  that  he  was  hungry.  He  had  not  had 
time  to  think  of  the  matter  before. 

A  strong-faced  man  with  a  bony  frame,  his  great  head 
covered  with  a  wildly  tossed  mane  of  grey  hair,  wheeled 
sharply  from  the  fire  over  which  he  had  been  bending.  A 
wooden  skewer  was  in  his  hand,  wherewith  he  had  been 
turning  half-a-dozen  large  loch  trout,  which  chattered  and 
buzzed  in  the  pan  as  if,  after  long  silence,  they  had  sud- 
denly become  voluble  with  a  lifetime  of  cheerful  sound. 
The  man  was  not  old — to  judge,  that  is,  by  the  quick  alert- 
ness of  his  movements,  by  the  effortless  way  in  which  he 
hung  the  pan  a  few  links  higher  or  reached  up  to  the  raft- 
ers to  hand  down  a  white  pudding,  and  especially  by  the 
penetrating  eye  of  light  blue  which  he  turned  upon  his 
son  as  he  entered. 

Yet  the  lines  under  the  lower  lids,  the  strong,  bony 


OH,  THAT  IT  WERE  YESTERDAY!        69 

throat  and  sinewy  wrist,  revealed  the  man  who  has 
passed  the  three  score  and  verges  toward  the  additional 
ten.  Nevertheless  there  were  not  three  men  in  the  county 
who  would  have  ventured  to  come  to  grips  with  Sharon 
McCulloch,  called  "the  Auld  Man  o'  the  Muir." 

He  held  his  little  handbreadth  of  land  on  peculiar  terms. 
During  the  time  of  the  Leveller  troubles,  about  the  year 
1723,  his  grandfather,  one  Jeremiah  McCulloch,  had  ren- 
dered a  great  service  to  the  Laird  of  Bennanbrack — no 
less  than  the  saving  of  his  life  and  that  of  his  son.  Jere- 
miah McCulloch  was  then  a  young  man  and  stood  high  in 
repute  with  all  the  neighbouring  gentry  as  a  clever  lad,  a 
kennin'  unscrupulous,  maybe,  but  all  the  better  of  that  in 
these  troublous  times — so  long,  that  is,  as  he  showed  him- 
self unscrupulous  only  on  the  right  side. 

Accordingly  when  he  married  and  settled,  the  grateful 
Laird  of  Bennanbrack  (without  consulting  his  man  of 
business)  devised  to  Jeremiah  McCulloch,  "in  recognition 
of  kindnesses  received  and  as  a  reward  of  faithful  service, 
the  lands  of  the  House  of  Muir,  extending  from  the  march 
of  the  Laird  of  Buttonbotham  to  where  my  land  touches 
the  ground  of  the  Laird  of  Low  ran  at  the  corner  of  the 
march-dyke,  thence  in  a  straight  line  across  to  the  Pluck- 
amin  Water,  with  all  the — and  so  forth — the  whole 
amounting  to  rather  more  than  three  hundred  acres,  of 
which  ten  are  arable,  on  condition  that  on  the  3ist  of  De- 
cember of  each  year  he  shall  deliver  one  cartload  of  peats 
at  the  mansion  house  of  Bennanbrack,  such  as  may  be  fitly 
usit  for  the  Yule  fire  in  the  hall." 

Now  the  grant  of  this  oasis  on  the  face  of  the  muir  to  a 
perpetual  tenant  sufficiently  irritated  the  surrounding 
lairds,  the  Laird  of  Lowran  and  him  of  Buttonbotham. 
And  it  is  shrewdly  suspected  that  Chesney  Barwinnock, 
Esquire  of  Bennanbrack,  being  at  perpetual  loggerheads 
with  his  fellows,  had  been  motived  to  dispone  his  lands  of 
House  of  Muir  for  this  laudable  and  neighbourly  purpose. 
But  in  the  deed  he  gave  another  reason  besides  gratitude 
toward  the  preserver  of  his  life  and  lineage.  He  averred 


70  STRONG  MAC 

that  "the  bit  grand  does  not  lie  weel  to  the  rest  of  my 
property." 

However,  it  was  not  long  after  that  Chesney  Barwin- 
nock,  Esquire,  D.  L.,  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  before  he  had 
been  able  to  carry  gut  his  declared  intention  of  building 
a  new  house  for  Jeremiah  McCulloch,  suitable  to  the  resi- 
dence of  a  man  who  was  now  a  landed  proprietor  and  a 
legal  heritor  in  the  parish  of  Lowran. 

So  it  came  about  that  to  the  original  little  two-roomed 
cottage  ("but-and-ben")  occupied  by  the  shepherd,  Jere- 
miah and  his  successor  had  added  with  their  own  hands, 
and  building  with  the  rough,  undressed  stones  from  the 
muir,  bound  together  with  lime  brought  up  in  creels  on 
pony  back,  the  strangest  ramble  of  chambers  opening 
one  out  of  the  other,  all,  however,  being  one  story  in 
height.  The  farm  buildings  were  set,  roughly  speaking, 
in  the  form  of  a  square,  but  the  dwelling  house  itself 
crawled  over  the  brown  bent  like  a  game  of  dominoes. 

So  long,  however,  as  Jeremiah,  the  first  founder  and 
hero,  lived,  there  was  no  open  rupture.  But  in  due  time  to 
him  there  was  born  a  son  who,  taking  the  road  to  Belfast, 
carried  on  a  traffic  in  Irish  cattle  by  way  of  Loch  Ryan.  A 
strong,  rash,  fightful  man  was  this  Ebenezer  McCulloch, 
biblically  militant,  that  is,,  and  weightily  dialectic  with  the 
most  convincing  reasons  for  the  faith  that  was  in  him. 

Sharon,  now  the  master  of  House  of  Muir,  was  the  son 
of  this  Ebenezer.  In  his  youth  he  had  been  loaned  every 
summer-half  of  the  year  to  his  grandfather  to  help  him 
with  the  handful  of  hill  acres  and  the  sheep  and  nowt  that 
grazed  upon  them.  While  there  he  had  picked  up  what 
learning  he  could  out  of  books — on  the  hillside  watching 
the  yowes,  or  snugged  in  the  bieldy  corner  of  some 
"bucht"  with  the  clear  light  of  early  summer  breaking 
overhead. 

Then  in  the  winter  young  Sharon  McCulloch  had  sailed 
on  every  sea,  trading,  smuggling,  lifting  cargoes  of  rum 
at  the  Isle  of  Man,  French  brandy  off  Bayonne,  tobacco 
in  the  great  salt  loch  which  runs  inland  to  Vigo,  or  riding 


OH,  THAT  IT  WERE  YESTERDAY !          71 

in  the  milky  smother  outside  Bilbao.,  Harsh  Catalan,  red- 
capped  and  ready  with  knife-blade,  swart,  voluble  Valen- 
cian,  with  the  rings  in  his  ears,  half  Moorish  Murcian — 
this  Ismaelite  of  a  Sharon  had  met  and  communed  with 
all  in  their  own  tongue  before  he  was  fifteen  years  old. 

But  now  for  many  years,  even  before  his  father's  death, 
he  had  given  up  his  roving  sea  life.  As  elsewhere,  the 
smuggling  trade  led  to  no  great  fortune.  Danger  and 
excitement  made  up  its  chief  rewards.  So  Ebenezer,  the 
first  trader,  being  gathered  to  his  fathers  and  the  adven- 
ture beginning  to  pall,  Sharon  McCulloch  looked  one  day 
through  the  deserted  rooms  of  House  of  Muir,  which  his 
father  had  added  and  plenished,  shook  his  head,  and  set 
off  next  day  to  Kelton  Hill  Fair.  There  he  looked  round 
for  the  sonsiest  lass  he  could  see — not  the  bonniest,  mark 
you,  but  the  healthiest  and  heartsomest.  He  picked  out  a 
certain  Mary  Pringle,  daughter  of  a  cottier  in  Buittle. 
Her  he  followed  with  quiet  observance  for  the  space  of 
an  hour,  and,  having  assured  himself  that  her  walk  and 
conversation  were  sedate,  and  that  she  was  physically  fit 
(she  knocked  down  with  one  free,  open-handed  cuff  a 
neighbour  lad  who  attempted  to  salute  her  in  public), 
Sharon  announced  to  himself  that  this  was  the  girl  for 
him. 

And  so  it  turned  out.  He  presented  the  case  to  the  lady 
in  as  many  words,  whereupon  Mary  and  he  went  in  search 
of  her  father  and  mother,  who  were  "howffed"  at  the 
house  of  a  gossip  over  a  "dish  o'  tea  wi'  a  cinder  in't!" 

"I  hae  fand  a  place,  mither,"  said  Mary  Pringle. 

"Ye  hae?"  said  her  mother.  "And  is  this  your  mais- 
ter?" 

"Na — he's  my  guidman !"  answered  Mary. 

"And  your  maister,  too!"  corrected  Sharon,  promptly. 
He  felt  that  it  was  better  to  have  a  clear  understanding 
from  the  beginning. 

Nevertheless  Sharon  McCulloch  used  Mary  Pringle 
well,  keeping  her,  as  she  affirmed,  "baith  couthy  and 
caigy"  in  these  upland  solitudes  where  his  home  was.  In 


72  STRONG  MAC 

the  days  while  she  had  a  pair  of  sturdy  urchins  to  look 
after,  Mary  McCulloch  had  had  no  great  call  to  go  far 
from  home.  Her  husband  had  made  enough  to  keep  them 
comfortably.  There  was  work  enough  to  do  with  the 
bit  of  corn  in  the  hollow,  the  two  or  three  cows  in  the 
parks  and  the  sheep  on  the  hill.  The  man's  wild  ten- 
dencies seemed  to  have  died  out. 

Every  market  Monday  he  would  saunter  down  to  the 
town  and  bring  home  his  purchases  on  pony-back,  walking 
himself  with  long  loping  strides  by  its  side.  They  called 
him  the  Whaup  Laird  in  those  days,  and  Mary  McCul- 
loch watched  for  him  from  the  door  that  she  might  spy 
when  he  came  down  the  far  brae  face.  Then  she  put  the 
kettle  on  to  boil.  When  he  was  at  the  march-dyke  you 
might  have  heard  the  ham  skirling  in  the  pan,  and  by  the 
time  the  stable  door  was  shut  on  the  shaggy  pony  all  was 
set  in  array  upon  the  table. 

But  there  fell  a  strange  judgment  upon  Sharon  and  his 
house,  which  changed  all  his  life.  The  little  property  of 
House  of  Muir  was  roughly  the  shape  of  an  isosceles  tri- 
angle, with  its  apex  pointing  up  the  hill.  There,  also,  was 
the  point  where  the  three  lairds'  grounds  met,  and  on  a 
heathery  hillock  high  over  the  crofts  and  the  homestead 
Mary  McCulloch  loved  to  sit  and  knit,  the  children  play- 
ing about,  while  she  watched  for  her  husband's  return 
from  the  hills  and  lochs,  from  a  visit  to  his  fedual  chief 
at  Bennanbrack,  or  yet  further  afield,  from  the  market 
town  of  Drumfern. 

One  day  there  had  been  a  great  hither-and-thithering 
on  the  hills.  The  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  County,  on  a 
visit  to  my  Lord  Glenkells,  was  being  shown  the  best  sport 
the  countryside  afforded.  Deer  were  driven  and  hunted 
and  shot  at  with  noise  and  tumult,  while  in  the  high  corner 
of  their  father's  little  property  two  children  clapped  their 
hands  to  see  the  fine  ruddy  brown  beasts  go  flying  over 
the  dykes  like  birds,  and  to  hear  the  blithe  crack-cracking 
of  the  guns. 

Sharon  McCulloch  was  late  in  coming  home  that  day. 


OH,  THAT  IT  WERE  YESTERDAY !          73 

He  had  been  detained  by  the  need  to  call  at  a  smithy  and 
have  a  shoe  put  on  the  pony. 

So  when  he  came  to  the  House  of  Muir,  lo !  the  door  was 
open  and  the  house  vacant.  At  which  he  laughed  to  him- 
self. 

"Puir  thing,"  he  said,  well  pleased,  "it  will  hae  been  a 
treat  to  her.  She  doesna  often  see  a  stir  of  folk  in  this 
wild  place !" 

And  so  he  took  his  way  up  to  the  look-out  knowe  where- 
on (to  pleasure  her)  he  had  built  a  cairn,  with  a  rude 
bench  of  stone  all  about  it. 

Yes,  she  was  there.  He  could  see  her  white  mutch  tied 
with  a  ribbon,  and  the  black  lace  shawl  he  had  brought  her 
all  the  way  from  Malaga. 

And  yonder,  toddling  toward  him,  came  the  children 
hand  in  hand.  They  were  both  weeping  bitterly,  but  it 
was  Roy  who  spoke. 

"Minnie's  sleepin' !"  he  said.  "She  winna  wauken  and 
speak  to  us !" 

His  face  suddenly  ice,  Sharon  made  one  wild  rush  up 
the  slope.  Mary  had  been  shot  as  she  sat — dead  without 
having  moved.  She  was  leaning  against  the  cairn  and 
looking  down,  as  if  at  her  knitting.  The  wool  was  still 
on  the  wires.  Not  a  stitch  was  dropped.  A  break  in  the 
dyke  revealed  where  a  stag  had  passed  in  front  of  where 
she  sat. 

For  the  rest,  all  were  gone  from  the  hill,  hunters  and 
hunted,  pursuers  and  pursued.  The  glen  was  empty  of 
beaters,  gamcwatchers,  carrying  ponies,  all  the  rout.  // 
might  have  been  yesterday,  thought  Sharon  McCulloch. 

He  awoke  to  find  himself  alone  upon  the  hill  with  a  dead 
woman  and  two  little  children  that  cried. 

******* 

From  that  day  forth  the  man  was  changed.  He  went 
no  more  regularly  to  market.  Only  when  he  had  sheep 
to  sell  he  might  be  seen  upon  the  drove  road  very  early 
in  the  morning,  though  already  in  the  low  country  and 


74  STRONG  MAC 

clear  of  the  hills.  And  no  man  knew  the  paths  by  which 
he  had  driven  his  beasts  so  far  unseen. 

For  the  rest  he  declared  war  against  those  landlords 
who  had  taken  part  in  the  careless,  cruel  sport  by  which 
he  had  lost  his  wife.  He  bought  and  sold  little,  for  his 
larder  was  never  empty  of  fresh  venison.  Some  he  would 
entice  upon  his  ground  and  shoot.  Others  he  would  bring 
long  distances  after  a  night  of  stalking.  He  was  watched, 
pursued,  lain  in  wait  for — all  in  vain.  He  could  bring  a 
dead  buck  into  the  House  of  Muir  through  a  cordon  of 
gamekeepers,  and  then  as  the  morning  broke  they  would 
see  him  busy  skinning  it  in  the  cart-shed. 

As  the  lads  grew  up  he  trained  them  carefully,  finding 
in  Roy  an  ally  after  his  heart.  All  the  smuggler's  in- 
herited skill,  all  the  strength  and  vigour  of  the  master 
mariner  who  had  kept  the  wildest  crew  of  mixed  Latin 
races  in  check  without  bloodshed,  seemed  to  have  de- 
scended to  this  boy.  James  was  more  like  his  mother, 
and,  though  he  could  be  trusted  to  watch,  to  follow  and 
to  report,  he  was  (as  his  father  said)  "no  great  things  at 
the  fechtin' !" 

This  was  the  strange  household  of  House  of  Muir  to 
which  Strong  Mac  returned,  bringing  the  "Single- 
handed"  trophy  with  him. 


CHAPTER  XL 

WITHOUT  ARE  DOGS. 

SHARON  McCuLLOCH  and  his  two  sons  sat  about  the 
table  eating  their  supper.  The  former  listened  grimly  to 
the  tale  his  sons  told  him,  but  he  said  nothing — not  even 
when  the  Cup  was  placed  before  him.  He  only  took  it 
in  his  hands  and  looked  at  it  curiously. 

"Where  learned  ye  to  plough  ?"  he  said,  turning  the  Sin- 
gle-handed about  in  his  long,  supple  fingers. 

"Last  winter — doon  yont  there!"  said  Roy,  with  his 
mouth  full  of  alternate  bacon  and  fried  potato  scone.  He 
indicated  the  farm  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  he  had 
passed  the  previous  winter,  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb. 

"Ye  maun  hae  a  straight  e'e  in  your  head,"  he  said,  add- 
ing grimly :  "I  wush  ye  wad  put  some  mair  o'  it  into  your 
shootin' !  Ye  missed  that  last  roe  at  thirty  yards,  and  if 
I  hadna  been  ahint  ye  the  beast  wad  hae  gotten  awa' !" 

"It's  that  auld  besom,"  said  Roy  uneasily,  looking  at 
his  gun.  "She  winna  throw  where  ye  haud  her — na,  no' 
within  three  feet  at  thirty  yards.  Ye  should  try  her  your- 
sel',  faither!" 

"Ill  workmen — ill  tools !"  said  his  father,  sententiously. 
"Roy,  Roy,  to  make  excuse  is  no'  what  I  expected  o'  the 
son  o'  Sharon  McCulloch." 

The  words  stung  the  boy. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "you  gie  me  the  lend  o'  your  rifle 
and  you  tak'  auld  Bess  there,  and  I'll  gie  ye  three  bulls' 
eyes  oot  o'  six  at  a  mark  the  morn's  mornin' !" 

Sharon  McCulloch  chuckled. 

"Marks,"  he  cried,  "marks!     Nane  o'  your  barn-ends 


76  STRONG  MAC 

for  me !  The  marks  I  like  best  are  the  bonny  broon  marks 
that  come  loupin'  ower  oor  mairch-dyke  wi'  horns  on  their 
heads.  Get  doon  the  muckle  Bible,  James,  and  let  us  wor- 
ship God!" 

So  these  three,  like  David  and  his  outlaw  folk  in  their 
cave  at  Engedi,  set  themselves,  in  a  lull  of  the  campaign 
against  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  to  sing  the  warrior 
psalms  and  read  the  chronicles  of  warlike  deeds  out  of  the 
Scriptures  of  the  Old  Testament.  This  night  it  was  the 
story  of  how  Jonathan  climbed  the  rock  over  against 
Michmash,  how  he  put  the  Philistines  to  rout,  and  the 
story  held  them  all  fast.  When  Sharon  McCulloch  fin- 
ished he  made  but  one  comment. 

"Twenty  men  in  half  an  acre  o'  grund — that  was  a 
Single-handed  worth  bringin'  hame!"  he  said.  "Let  us 
pray!"  Then  the  stern-faced,  gaunt  old  man  prayed  to 
the  God  of  battles,  strong  in  the  faith  that  he  and  his  two 
sons  stood  on  their  proper  defences  with  the  blessing  of 
Joshua's  God,  and  Samson's  God,  and  the  God  of  all  the 
warring  Judges  and  Kings. 

And  this  was  the  substance  of  his  prayer: 

"Hold  us  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand,  O  Lord.  Keep  us 
safe  in  this  strait  place,  even  as  thou  didst  thy  servant 
Jonah  in  the  belly  of  the  whale.  Give  us  good  out-gate 
as  thou  didst  him,  when  the  waters  compass  about  our 
souls,  when  the  deeps  close  round,  when  the  weeds  are 
wrapt  about  our  heads. 

"We  are  compassed  by  the  hosts  of  ungodly  that  take 
thy  name  in  vain,  and  do  wickedly  all  day  long.  Blood  is 
on  their  hands.  Evil  in  their  hearts.  Like  Abraham,  may 
we  smite  the  four  kings  that  are  confederate  against  us, 
Chedarlaomar,  and  Tidal,  and  Amraphel,  and  Arioch — 
whilk  is  to  say  my  Lord  Glenkells,  that  tarrieth  long  at 
the  wine-cup,  and  Barwhinnock  o'  Bennanbrack,  that  hath 
done  us  much  evil  and  intendeth  more,  and  Bodden  o'  But- 
tonbotham,  that  eggeth  him  on,  and  eke  this  new  Laird 
o'  Lowran,  Sidney  Latimer,  that  hath  this  night  raised 
up  his  heel  against  us.  Tumble  them  all  into  the  slime 


WITHOUT  ARE  DOGS  77 

pits  of  Siddim,  good  Lord.  Gie  them  paiks  in  the  Vale 
of  Mamre.  Pursue  them  unto  Hoba  and  take  a  great 
prey,  even  within  sight  of  the  accursed  pinnacles  of  Da- 
mascus/' 

So  far  had  the  worthy  handler  of  the  weapons  of  war 
advanced  in  his  supplications,  when  through  the  gusty 
rise  and  fall  of  his  voice  a  thin  piping  noise  made  itself 
heard.  It  might  have  been  only  the  wind  moaning 
through  the  keyhole,  thought  Roy.  Winds  whistled  and 
moaned  and  sobbed  and  whinnied  at  House  of  Muir  all 
the  year  round.  It  might  also  have  been  a  dog  whining  for 
admission.  For  all  such  were  unanimously  extruded  be- 
fore worship,  except  his  father's  ancient  deerhound 
Clownie,  so  called  from  a  little  Balmaghie  farm  whence  he 
had  come  long  ago. 

But  this  was  not  the  wind,  nor  yet  a  dog  anxious  to  lie 
at  the  fire  unkicked,  but  a  low  human  cry,  fitful,  appealing. 
Roy  was  rising  hastily  to  his  feet  as  his  father  brought  his 
prayer  to  a  close  with  a  final  comprehensive  anathema, 
"Even  as  said  the  son  of  Jesse  in  the  Shiggaion  which  he 
made  against  the  works  of  Cush  the  Benjaminite,  so  do 
Thou  confound  their  work.  Put  them  to  naught  that 
have  prepared  for  us  the  instruments  of  death.  Let  them 
fall  into  the  pit  they  themselves  have  digged!  Yea,  as 
David  sang  to  the  chief -musician  upon  Muth-labben,  'In 
the  net  which  they  have  laid,  let  their  own  foot  be  taken. 
Let  the  wicked  be  snared  in  the  work  of  his  own  hands ! 
Higgaion.  Selah.  Amen !" 

The  last  word  was  scarce  out  of  his  mouth  when  Sharon 
McCulloch  moved  to  the  door,  anticipating  his  sons.  But 
Roy  looked  over  his  shoulder,  his  old  "besom"  of  a  gun  in 
his  hand.  She  could  not  well  throw  wide  at  that  dis- 
tance. It  might  be  some  new  dodge  of  Jonathan  Grier's. 
And  Roy  smiled  grimly  and  pityingly  as  he  thought  of 
half  a  dozen  keepers  daring  to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

But  when  the  door  was  opened,  nothing  was  to  be  seen 
save  the  black  night  and  the  gaunt  outline  of  the  farm 
buildings,  still  more  velvety  black  across  the  yard.  Nor 


78  STRONG  MAC 

was  anything  to  be  heard  save  the  sough  of  the  wet  wind, 
soft,  clammy  and  spiritless,  dank  with  the  smell  of 
rotting  leaves,  that  came  up  through  the  woods  of  Low- 
ran  and  the  Cleuch  of  Pluckamin. 

Sharon  took  a  step  outward  so  that  he  might  shut  the 
door  behind  him  and  get  his  eyes  more  tuned  to  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  night.  As  he  did  so  his  foot  touched  some- 
thing curiously  soft.  He  stooped.  His  fingers  recoilec 
with  a  thrill  of  apprehension.  What  was  it  the  enemy 
had  laid  at  his  door  now  ? 

He  lifted  the  small  soft  thing  and  carried  it  indoors 
It  was  a  boy,  scratched  as  to  face  and  hands,  wet  to  the 
skin,  and,  as  Sharon  McCulloch  swiftly  discovered,  bleed- 
ing from  a  gun-shot  wound  in  the  shoulder. 

"It's  Daid  the  Deil !"  cried  Roy  in  astonishment.  "Wha 
has  brocht  him  here  ?" 

The  two  eyes,  black  as  sloes,  twinkled  for  a  moment  in 
the  wet  chill  whiteness  of  the  pinched  face. 

"If  ye  please,  Strong  Mac,"  said  a  piping  voice,  "they 
shot  at  me  when  I  was  in  the  tree,  an*  I  fell  in  the  burn 
But  I  hae  fetched  hame  your  bag.  No'  yin  o'  them  couk 
get  that  frae  Daid !" 

And  the  lids  shut  down  again  on  the  black  twinkling 
sloes. 

Thus  it  was  that  Daid  the  Deil  won  his  spurs.  It  wa 
his  patent  of  knighthood  when  he  came  to  himself  tha 
he  found  Strong  Mac's  arm  about  his  neck,  and  he  hearc 
the  voice  of  his  king  saying,  "I  dinna  ken  how  he  did  it 
There's  mair  spirit  in  his  wee  finger  than  in  a'  Lowran 
schule!" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   TALE   OF   DAID   THE   DEIL. 

THEY  sat  with  him  all  through  the  night.  Daid  the  Deil 
was  laid  where  he  had  never  been  before,  on  a  clean  bed, 
among  warm  blankets,  and  as  he  remarked,  "between  nap- 
kins a'  steekit  thegither" — which  was  his  first  impression 
of  sheets.  For  Sharon  McCulloch  had  fetched  some 
strange  notions  home  with  him  from  foreign  parts,  and 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  sleeping  on  the  floor  as 
of  lying  between  blankets. 

With  no  unskilful  surgery  Sharon  extracted  the  pellets 
of  lead  with  which  Daid's  shoulder  was  torn.  Luck- 
ily for  him,  the  main  trunk  of  the  fir  against  which  the 
boy  had  been  leaning  had  received  most  of  these.  Still 
there  were  enough  left  to  burn  red-hot  into  Daid's  poor, 
ill-nourished  flesh. 

Not  that  Daid  cared.  He,  the  son  of  the  village  poacher, 
the  common  butt  of  Lowran,  respected  only  for  his  in- 
iquities, lay  entranced  in  Paradise.  He  was  thinking  what 
a  small  price  an  aching  shoulder  was  to  pay  for  bliss  like 
this.  Then  they  encouraged  him  to  tell  his  tale.  He 
felt  like  a  weak  mortal  suddenly  called  upon  to  speak 
in  the  full  council  of  the  gods.  But  the  mortal  had  a 
tongue  and  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Weel,  ye  see,"  Daid  began,  turning  his  beady  eyes  on 
the  three  faces  about  his  bed,  all  bent  eagerly  not  to  miss  a 
word  ("Lie  doon,  ye  beast!"),  "I  had  been  watchin'  them 
a'  day.  I  had  nae  place  to  gang  for  onything  to  eat  when 
the  schule  let  oot  at  denner-time.  An'  sae  I  waitit  in  the 
hoose-end  where  the  Dominie  keeps  his  peats  when  he 


8o  STRONG  MAC 

fetches  them  aff  the  stack.  What  was  it  I  was  waitin' 
for?  It  was  for  you,  Strong  Mac.  Ye  ken  ye  whiles 
gied  me  a  bite — that  is,  when  ye  mindit !" 

Here  Strong  Mac  groaned  that  he  had  forgotten  so 
often. 

"I  didna  ken!"  he  said.  "I  never  jaloosed  that  ye 
needit  it!" 

"It  didna  maitter,"  said  Daid  the  Deil,  soothingly.  "I 
was  brawly  weel  used  to  doin'  withoot.  But  at  ony  rate, 
ye  bode  in  the  schule — talkin'  to  a  lassie — " 

At  this  Sharon  McCulloch  looked  very  stern,  but  said 
nothing.  Roy  very  perceptibly  lost  his  easy  confidence. 
As  for  James,  he  gurgled,  and  docketed  the  phrase  for  ref- 
erence. It  was  a  missile  of  price. 

Such  a  silence  fell  that  Daid  hurried  on,  instantly  con- 
scious that  the  wheels  of  his  narrative  were  driving 
heavily. 

"Then  ye  cam'  oot,  and  I  was  for  followin'  ye;  but  I 
saw  ye  hadna  ta'en  your  deener,  sae  I  kenned  ye  wad  be 
comin'  back.  Sae  I  bode  whaur  I  was.  Then  I  heard 
the  lassie  talkin'  to  the  gamekeepie,  but  ower  far  aff  to 
catch  what  they  said  yin  to  anither.  But  as  a'  that  gameys 
says  is  bad,  I  gaed  through  the  plantation  and  hid  ahint 
the  hedge,  and  there  I  heard  them  miscaain'  ye,  and 
swearin'  they  wad  catch  ye  an'  that — the  misleart 
hounds ! 

"Sae  when  the  schule  was  oot,  I  thocht  that  they  wad 
bear  watchin'.  The  man  in  the  grey  claes  wi'  the  beard 
was  up  at  the  minister's — I  saw  the  twa  o'  them  through 
the  window  drinkin'  red  whuskey  oot  o'  glasses  as  lang 
as  that!"  (Daid  shaped  the  palms  of  his  hands  into  a 
V.)  Sae  I  kenned  that  he  couldna  be  a  gamekeepie! 
Na,  if  he  had  been  that,  he  wad  hae  corned  ower  the  dyke 
at  the  back  and  slinkit  to  the  door — a'  for  to  sorn  on  the 
minister's  Janet !  That's  what  gameys  do !  They  are  aye 
for  the  cupboard.  I  ken !" 

For  the  first  time  Sharon  looked  an  inquiry  at  his  sons, 
But  they  shook  their  heads.  Daid  felt  the  interrogative. 


THE  TALE  OF  DAID  THE  DEIL  81 

"Oh,  I  sune  fand  oot  wha  he  was,"  he  said,  triumph- 
antly. "I  slippit  roond  to  Janet  mysel'.  She's  nane  siccan 
a  bad  sort,  though  naturally  saft  wi'  onything  in  knee- 
breeks,  is  Janet  Aitkin.  I  says  to  her,  'Janet/  I  says,  'ye 
are  bonny — will  ye  gie  me  a  cauld  tawtie,  or  onything?' 
Sae  of  coorse  she  bade  me  be  aff  wi'  my  flairdie,  or  she 
wad  set  the  dowg  on  me — as  if  I  didna  ken  that  the  dowg 
was  at  that  moment  lyin'  on  the  parlour  rug  (besides 
bein'  a  freend  o'  mine,  onyway).  But  I  juist  waited  on, 
and  when  she  gied  me  the  tawtie  I  says  to  Janet,  'Ye  hae 
company  up  the  stair  ?'  Wi'  a  beck  o'  my  heid,  like  that, 
I  said  it." 

Daid  illustrated,  and  then,  with  a  wry  face,  suddenly 
recollected  his  shoulder. 

"  'Aye,'  says  Janet,  'sic  company  as  there  is  no'  like  to 
be  in  ony  ither  hoose  in  Lowran  this  month  o'  Sundays. 
Yon's  the  Laird !' 

"'Whatna  Laird?' 

"  'Hear  till  him !'  she  cried.  'Has  the  lift  opened  an' 
the  heaven  been  rainin'  lairds  for  seven  days  an'  seven 
nichts?  Yon's  the  new  Laird  o'  Lowran — Sidney  Lati- 
mer,  Esquire — and  wi'  letters  after  his  name.  He  has 
been  i'  the  wars,  they  tell  me.' ' 

Old  Sharon  looked  at  his  two  sons  with  a  very  grim 
face. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  "he  is  only  the  seed  o'  Belial  in  the  sec- 
ond degree!" 

Daid  went  on  unmoved. 

"I  watched  Jonathan  bywhiles,  but  there  was  naething 
to  find  oot  aboot  him.  He  gaed  to  the  change-hoose  and 
stayed  there.  Sae  I  followed  and  did  some  messages  for 
auld  Lucky.  She's  no'  half  a  bad  body,  Lucky,  if  ye 
keep  the  richt  side  o'  her.  An'  when  I  could  I  slippit  into 
the  bar.  And  then  I  heard  that  Jonathan  was  gatherin' 
up  a  cleckin'  o'  keepers  an'  sic  like  trash — to  gang  and 
look  for  a  fox,  he  said.  But  I  soon  kenned  whatna  fox 
he  was  after. 

"Then  I  gaed  back  to  the  schule  to  warn  you,  and  cam' 


82  STRONG  MAC 

on  you  (as  I  thocht)  gaun  hame  wi'  a  lassie.  The  mist 
was  thick.  I  didna  ken  the  yin  o'  ye  frae  the  ither,  shame 
be  to  me !  It  wasna  you,  Roy,  this  time  that  was  wi'  the 
lassie.  Jamie  there  kens  wha  it  was." 

(At  this  point  the  missile  which  Jamie  had  been  saving 
up  in  his  armoury  lost  its  value.  He  discarded  it  hastily.) 

"An'  by  the  time  I  fand  my  mistak'  and  got  back,  Roy 
was  up  the  Cleuch  o'  Pluckamin  an'  awa' ! 

"But  I  followed  the  vermin.  Aye,  Daid  kenned  the 
road  to  win  yont  them,  and  that  was  amang  the  taps  o'  the 
trees.  Sae  he  fand  ye  and  gat  your  bag,  Roy.  An'  it 
was  a'  his  am  faut  that  ony  o'  them  ever  saw  him.  For 
as  the  brutes  were  gaun  girnin'  hame  wi'  their  finger  in 
their  mooth,  he  peltit  them  wi'  branches  an'  sic  like.  Then 
Jonathan  Grier  let  aff  his  gun  at  him,  and  Daid  could  juist 
haud  on  till  they  were  doon  the  glen.  Then  he  fell  into 
the  pool  aneath !" 

"Was  the  new  Laird  there  when  there  was  shootin'?" 
asked  Sharon,  very  softly.  It  seemed  a  simple  question, 
but  many  things  depended  upon  it. 

"Aye,"  said  Daid,  with  equal  simplicity,  "but  I  heard 
him  flytin'  on  Jonathan  for  drawin'  the  trigger.  He  wad 
haud  him  responsible  for  ony  mischief,  he  said.  Jonathan 
was  to  mind  that." 

"And  then  ?"  queried  Roy,  eager  for  the  end. 

"Oh,  the  cauld  water  garred  me  to  come  to  mysel'," 
continued  Daid.  "I  warsled  oot  an'  up  the  bank.  I  lay 
there  a  lang  time,  and  syne  I  took  the  face  o'  the  muir.  It 
was  a  weary  lang  road  an'  the  nicht  was  bitter  mirk.  But 
when  yince  I  saw  the  licht  afore  me  that  I  kenned  was 
your  hoose,  Strong  Mac,  it  cam'  easier.  I  juist  says  to 
mysel',  'He's  yonder,  Daid!' 

"An'  sae  I  warsled  through!" 

******* 

The  tale  of  Daid's  travel  sat  heavy  on  the  hearts  of 
the  three  Ismaels  that  night.  It  was  not  so  much  a 
desire  for  revenge  as  a  fixed  determination  to  set  things 
on  another  footing  which  moved  them. 


THE  TALE  OF  DAID  THE  DEAL  83 

At  last,  after  long  thought,  Sharon  beckoned  his  two 
sons  into  the  kitchen.  Daid  had  fallen  into  a  light  doze, 
perhaps  cunningly  assisted  thereto  iy  the  pharmacy  of 
Sharon.  The  head  of  the  house  desired  to  speak  with  his 
own. 

"Roy  and  James/'  he  said,  "this  canna  be  left  as  it  is. 
We  maun  win  a  richt  to  a  road  oot  an*  in  to  the  Hoose 
o'  Muir — withoot  question,  withoot  deforcement,  either 
frae  person,  pailing,  dyke,  yett,  barricade,  ditch,  or  ither 
obstacle.  There's  nae  hoose  in  Scotland  that  hasna  a 
richt  to  a  road  to  kirk  an*  market.  Yet  we  hae  to  gang 
this  way  and  that  under  cloud  o'  nicht  to  win  to  the  King's 
Highway.  No'  that  I  deny  it's  pairtly  oor  ain  faut — 
gangin'  at  one  time  by  the  Cleuch  and  at  anither  by  Ben- 
nanbrack,  an'  then  aiblins  the  neist  time  doon  the  burn- 
side.  It  becomes  us  to  choose  yin  o'  thae  roads  an'  stick 
to  it.  Let  it  be  the  Bennanbrack  road,  an'  for  these  rea- 
sons— first,  though  it's  the  langest,  it's  the  road  that  gangs 
properly  wi'  the  farm  o'  Hoose  o'  Muir.  For  ill  as  he 
likes  to  think  o't,  we  are  a  pendicle  o'  that  estate  wi'  a 
condition  o'  service  to  fulfil,  and  ony  richts  we  hae  we 
get  frae  the  grant  o'  the  Laird  o'  Bennanbrack's  grand- 
faither !" 

"Lord,  what  wad  he  gie  noo  to  hae  chockit  his  grandad 
quietly  the  nicht  afore  he  subscrivit  that!"  said  James, 
who  had  in  him  some  of  the  spirit  of  the  lawyer  and  saw 
with  a  discerning  eye  the  agonies  of  the  present  propri- 
etor over  the  too  generous  folly  of  his  ancestor  in  devising 
House  of  Muir  to  the  first  McCulloch. 

"Second,"  continued  his  father,  "there's  what  we  will 
hae  to  begin  and  think  aboot  for  anither  year — the  delivery 
o'  that  cairt  o'  peats  at  the  muckle  hoose  o'  Bennanbrack. 
If  they  could  see  a  single  Yule  past  withoot  us  layin'  them 
doon,  they  could  tak'  awa'  the  Hoose  o'  Muir  frae  us  for 
ever  an'  a  day." 

"It's  a  guid  thing,  faither,"  said  Roy,  smiling,  "that 
it's  no'  the  last  day  o'  June  instead  o'  December.  They 
could  herd  us  better  in  the  short  nichts." 


84  STRONG  MAC 

'They  will  herd  us  close  aneuch  this  year,  ye  may  de- 
pend/' said  Sharon,  knitting  his  bushy  grey  eyebrows 
and  letting  his  hands  wander  in  the  direction  of  a  gun  that 
lay  on  the  rack.  He  took  it  down  and  regarded  closely 
the  mechanism  of  the  lock. 

"Sae  frae  this  forward  we  will  stick  to  the  Bennanbrack 
road  on  every  occasion,  except,  as  it  were,  in  the  dark,  an' 
when  we  hae  larder  business  on  foot." 

It  was  thus  that  Sharon  spoke  of  the  chase  of  other 
people's  deer,  in  which  he  held  that  there  could  be  no 
property — these  being  (as  he  expressed  it)  "the  wild 
things  that  God  gied  unto  oor  first  forefather  Adam,  that 
nae  man  can  tame  nor  bind,  neither  the  King  nor  the 
Prince  nor  the  great  one  o'  the  earth,  nor  the  laws  they 
mak'  to  grind  the  face  o'  the  poor.  They  shallna  be  bindin' 
on  Sharon  McCulloch  nor  on  his  children.  If  a  man  wants 
to  mak'  a  property  o'  a  deer  as  he  does  o'  a  sheep  or  a  coo, 
let  him  shut  it  up  wi'  fences,  mark  it  wi'  keel,  order  its 
ootgoings  and  incomings.  So  be  it.  Then  Sharon  Mc- 
Culloch will  neither  mix  nor  mell  wi'  ony  man's  deer 
park  nor  stirk  park,  his  pheasant  yard  nor  his  poultry 
yard.  But  as  lang  as  the  bonny  broon  deer  flee  lichtfit 
ower  the  muir,  takin'  the  dykes  like  partricks  and  the 
moss-hags  like  birds  o'  the  air,  sae  lang  will  I,  Sharon, 
Laird  o'  Hoose  o'  Muir,  in  virtue  o'  the  pooer  God  gied  to 
Adam  the  first  man,  haud  mysel'  lord  o'  the  wild  deer  that 
rins,  an'  o'  the  wild  bird  that  flees,  o'  the  fish  that  sooms 
and  the  serpent  that  crawls  on  his  belly  upon  the  face  of 
theyird!" 

"The  lairds  micht  hae  the  ethers  for  me  and  welcome !" 
murmured  Roy  to  himself,  but  aloud  he  said,  "Hae  ye 
thought  on  how  to  get  the  peats  to  Bennanbrack  this 
year?" 

Sharon  McCulloch  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"Yae  thing  at  a  time,  Roy,"  he  answered,  gently. 
"There's  the  road  to  be  opened  and  keepit  open  in  spite  o' 
their  teeth.  But  I  doot  na  that  mony  a  thing  will  rise  in 


THE  TALE  OF  BADE  THE  DEIL    85 

oor  minds  afore  the  Yule  peats  maun  be  laid  doon  at  the 
door  o'  Chesney  Barwhinnock  o'  Bennanbrack." 

"And  the  schulin'?"  said  James,  who  had  his  reasons 
for  asking.  Roy  also  looked  a  little  anxious. 

"That's  as  may  be/'  answered  Sharon,  gravely. 
"There's  the  road  free  to  ye.  It  will  do  no  harm  to 
mak'  sure  that  it  is  clear  nicht  and  mornin'.  To-morrow 
at  daybreak  we  will  lay  the  axe  to  the  root  o'  the  tree,  and 
break  a  road  for  our  feet  to  walk  upon  to  the  King's  High- 
way/' 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  CAMPAIGN. 

ON  the  day  that  the  House  of  Muir  Right-of-Way  was 
to  be  vindicated  Adora  Grade  woke  early.  Or  rather,  she 
had  slept  but  little.  In  the  dead  heart  of  the  night  she 
had  lain  long  awake,  awake  with  a  mind  unnaturally  clear, 
acute,  lucid  with  an  almost  infernal  lucidity.  She  saw  the 
life  of  her  father — her  own  life,  both  past  and  to  come. 
She  knew  like  the  demonstration  of  a  proposition  in  Eu- 
clid that  if  he  went  on  as  he  was  doing,  Donald  Gracie 
would  kill  himself — and  that  before  long. 

And  then? 

At  first  she  did  not  think  of  herself,  so  full  was  she  of 
commending  her  father  to  the  Eternal  Mercy.  But  after 
the  second  question  arose.  What  of  herself?  She  knew 
the  amount  of  worldly  gear  in  the  possession  of  Donald 
Gracie — the  furniture  and  about  three  pounds  in  the 
tea  caddy.  The  minister  and  session  would  appoint  a 
new  schoolmaster — and — she  would  be  thrust  out  on  the 
wet  road,  homeless  as  one  of  the  ash-leaves  that  had  fallen 
at  sunrise  on  the  morning  of  the  last  frost,  and  now  lay 
dank  and  trampled  among  the  mire. 

Yet  though  Adora  had  lain  sleepless  for  hours,  with  the 
happy  inconsequence  of  youth,  at  six  of  the  morning  she 
fell  asleep,  and  it  was  at  eight  that  Donald  Gracie  him- 
self stood  at  her  bedside  with  a  cup  of  tea  in  his  hand.  It 
was  his  peace  offering,  simply  given,  as  simply  accepted. 
He  had  come  to  himself  with  a  taste  in  his  mouth,  bitter 
like  wormwood,  and  a  thirst  which  told  him  in  the  first 
waking  moment  what  had  happened. 


THE  CAMPAIGN  87 

,  He  had  sought  the  floor  with  his  naked  foot,  risen, 
swayed  a  moment  uncertainly  with  an  aching  head  and  a 
sinking  heart,  thought  of  and  resisted  with  passionate  dis- 
gust a  certain  temptation,  and — stolen  away  to  light  the 
kitchen  fire,  though  yet  the  trees  were  no  darker  than  the 
skies,  and  the  morning  breeze  was  only  beginning  to  shake 
the  great  drops  of  distilled  moisture  aslant  upon  the  win- 
dow of  the  kitchen  and  plumply  upon  the  leaden  roof  of 
the  porch. 

Then  when  the  Dominie  had  washed  and  dressed  him- 
self, when  he  had  pumped  water  on  the  back  of  his  neck 
and  drank  two  cups  of  scalding  tea  rapidly,  he  was  ready 
to  take  the  third  and  choicest  to  the  bedside  of  his 
daughter. 

"Oh,  you  shouldn't,  father!"  she  cried,  when  she  saw 
what  he  had  done.  "It  is  wicked  to  let  me  lie  sleeping 
when  you — " 

His  face  altered.  He  feared  Adora  was  about  to  break 
their  unspoken  convention  and  refer  in  the  morning  to 
the  events  of  the  night  before. 

"I  am  very  well  this  morning,"  he  interrupted  a  little 
stiffly. 

"But  have  you  forgotten,"  she  cried,  sitting  up  with  the 
cup  of  tea  untouched  in  her  hand,  "have  you  forgotten 
that — you  had  an  accident  in  school  yesterday  ?  You  fell 
and  hurt  your  head  on  a  bench !" 

"So  I  did— so  I  did !"  he  said.  "It  is  true.  I  had  for- 
gotten !" 

Adora  thought  wisely  that  there  was  no  use  saying  any- 
thing about  Muckle  Sandy  Ewan  to  her  father.  If  any 
one  had  to  fight  that  battle,  she  would. 

"And  you  kept  the  school,  Adora!"  he  said,  tenderly. 
"There  is  no  one  like  you !" 

"Nonsense,  Pater  ^neas !"  she  cried.  "And  if  I  did, 
I  had  to  get  Roy  McCulloch  to  help  me.  That  was  no 
great  thing  to  boast  of — when  you  got  the  tea  all  alone. 
But  are  you  sure  that  your  head  is  better  ?  Let  me  look 
at  it!" 


88  STRONG  MAC 

The  swelling  was  certainly  reduced,  but  there  was  still 
considerable  contusion. 

"I  will  take  the  school  again  to-day,"  Adora  an- 
nounced, and  then,  a  sudden  thought  striking  her,  she 
added,  "But  you  will  come  in  and  help  me  with  the  ver- 
sions." 

"Ah !"  said  her  father,  "yes,  with  the  versions — though 
I  could  very  well  correct  those  here." 

"The  minister  might  come  in,"  said  Adora,  craftily,  who 
wished  to  keep  her  father  under  her  eye.  "You  would 
not  want  the  Doctor  to  find  only  me  in  the  desk.  It  is 
not  that  you  need  do  anything !" 

As  she  spoke  certain  visions  began  to  vanish  from  the 
mind  of  Donald.  Then  a  bright  thought  struck  him. 

"Friday,"  he  said.     "Why,  this  is  not  version  day !" 

"No,"  answered  the  girl  promptly,  "but  I  shall  want  you 
to  set  those  for  next  week !" 

"Ah !"  said  Donald  Gracie,  sighing  softly. 

******* 

"Now,"  said  Sharon  McCulloch,  as  he  drew  on  his 
boots  at  six  o'clock  that  same  morning  in  the  flagged 
kitchen  of  the  House  o'  Muir,  "let  a'  things  be  done  de- 
cently and  in  order.  James,  hae  ye  the  notices  ready? 
Roy,  the  axes?  I  will  tak'  the  heavy  gelleck"  (crow- 
bar). "Your  school-bags?  Gin  ye  like,  lads — though 
I  see  not  the  great  use  of  that." 

They  had  breakfasted  very  early,  their  father,  as  be- 
fore, doing  the  cooking,  while  the  lads  attended  to  the 
cattle  and  ponies,  lighted  each  by  an  iron  lantern  as  he 
moved  to  and  fro. 

These  three  did  all  things  during  the  morning  hours  in 
perfect  silence.  It  was  not  usual  for  them  to  speak  a 
word  to  each  other  till  after  their  father  had  "ta'en  the 
Buik."  This  morning  Sharon,  with  unconscious  pomp 
and  a  certain  gloomy  grandeur,  read  the  song  of  Deborah, 
the  prophetess.  His  prayer  bore  upon  the  same  stern 
paean. 

"Let   no   more   the   highroads   lie   desolate"    (so   he 


"  'OH,  YOU  SHOULDN'T,  FATHER,'  SHE  CRIED." 


THE  CAMPAIGN  89 

prayed),  "nor  the  travellers  walk  through  byways!  Make 
a  broad  way  and  an  open  before  our  feet !  Give  us  out- 
gate,  Lord.  Smite  even  as  thou  didst  in  the  camp  of  Sen- 
nacherib, the  King  of  Assyria,  as  thou  didst  before  the 
city  of  Samaria,  so  that  those  that  hate  us  may  bite  the 
dust!" 

There  was  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  Sharon  McCulloch 
as  to  his  unique  position.  He  and  his  were  the  favoured 
of  Providence,  even  as  were  those  Old  Testament  saints 
who  spoiled  the  Egyptians,  or  those  others  who,  seeing  a 
good  land  and  a  pleasant  beyond  Jordan,  crossed  over  to 
take  possession. 

If  there  were  Canaanites  and  Hittites  and  Hivites  and 
Jebusites  there — why,  so  much  the  worse  for  them.  To 
the  Chosen  alone  pertained  the  fruits  of  the  land — oil  and 
honey  and  running  milk  and  bursting  grape — yea,  from 
the  snows  of  Lebanon  on  the  north  to  where  the  vineyards 
of  Engedi  overlook  the  salt  acreages  of  the  Dead  Sea. 

So  the  roe-deer  of  Barwhinnock  and  the  pheasants  of 
Lowran,  the  grouse  on  the  muirs  of  my  Lord  Glenkells 
and  the  partridges  on  the  fat  furrows  of  Bodden  of  But- 
tonbotham — these  could  be  no  property  of  Canaanite  and 
Philistine  so  long  as  there  was  an  Israelite  to  lay  his  eye 
along  a  gun-barrel,  or  one  of  the  seed  of  Jacob  with  a 
finger  to  pull  trigger. 

And  indeed,  admitting  the  applicability  of  Old  Testa- 
ment principles,  it  would  have  been  a  bold  controversialist 
who  would  have  proved  to  Sharon  McCulloch  that  he  was 
in  error. 

It  was  the  earliest  streak  of  a  winter's  day,  grey,  mourn- 
ful, mist-wrapped,  when  the  axe  was  laid  to  the  root  of 
the  tree — that  is,  of  the  gate  post. 

Laboriously  had  the  Laird  of  Bennanbrack  and  his  men 
built  up  the  dykes,  cross-barred  the  ancient  roadways,  and 
broken  down  the  rude  country  bridges  which  spanned  the 
Pluckamin  Burn  and  the  infant  Lowran. 

But  Sharon  McCulloch  and  his  sons  cut  a  swathe  across 


90  STRONG  MAC 

the  country,  clean  and  broad,  laying  out  a  highway  pas- 
sable for  man  and  for  beast. 

Where  there  were  only  locked  gates,  they  contented 
themselves  with  breaking  the  padlock  and  laying  it  upon 
the  lintel  post.  They  then  nailed  up  a  notice  to  it,  setting 
that  this  was  the  legal  road  from  the  farm  of  House 
of  Muir  to  Kirk  and  Market. 

Where  the  obstructions  were  more  serious,  as  where 
a  seven-foot  dyke  had  been  built  across  the  path,  they 
made  a  gap  wide  enough  for  a  horse  and  cart  to  pass, 
and  with  the  same  law-abiding  formality,  they  piled  the 
stones  at  the  side  and  stuck  their  notice  on  the  top.  A  re- 
cently planted  hedge  was  uprooted.  A  strong  barricade 
of  young  pine  trees  crossed  with  wattles  was  shattered  by 
axe-stroke  and  the  remains  extracted  by  Sharon's  crow- 
bar. 

It  was  while  this  last  operation  was  being  completed 
that  the  Laird  of  Bennanbrack  arrived.  He  was  a  red- 
faced  man  of  fifty-five,  raucous  of  voice  as  a  crow,  and 
convinced  of  the  Divine  Right  of  landlords,  but  with  lim- 
ited means  of  expressing  it. 

"What's  this?  What's  this?  Infernal  scoundrels! 
What  are  ye  doing  here  ?  Condemn  your  souls !  Get  off 
my  land.  I'll  have  ye  all  in  Kirkcudbright  Gaol  before 
the  day  is  over !  Here,  Lambie,  Robertson,  take  these  fel- 
lows !  Seize  them,  I  say !" 

Several  game-watchers  ran  hastily  up  at  their  master's 
call,  but  fell  back  at  the  sight  of  the  three  McCullochs, 
Roy  and  James  with  sweeping  broadaxes,  and  their  father 
standing  erect  leaning  upon  a  crowbar,  which  in  his 
hands  could  easily  have  dashed  the  brains  out  of  a  horse. 
It  was  a  daunting  spectacle,  and  made  for  peace. 

"Go  on,  cowardly  sweeps  that  ye  are!"  cried  Chesney 
Barwhinnock,  Esquire.  "What  are  ye  feared  of?" 

"The  verra  same  thing  ye  are  feared  o'  yoursel' !"  cried 
Tyd  Lambie,  who  was  a  wit.  "Aye,  the  deil's  selfsame !" 

"The  law  will  protect  you !"  said  the  landed  proprietor. 


THE  CAMPAIGN  91 

"Aye,  when  we  are  deid!"  answered  Tyd.  "That'll 
be  a  great  coamfort!" 

Sharon  McCulloch  leaned  with  hi§  arms  folded  on  the 
crowbar,  watching  his  foes. 

"Gang  on,  lads,"  he  commanded  in  his  turn.  "Cut  a 
road  through  to  the  King's  Highway !" 

So  in  spite  of  the  execrations  of  Chesney  Barwhinnock, 
the  work  progressed  rapidly.  Down  went  the  barricades 
one  after  the  other,  none  daring  to  hinder.  The  chips  flew 
every  way.  Strong  Mac's  axe  whirled  about  his  head,  a 
circle  of  gleaming  steel  on  which  the  morning  sun,  rising 
red,  shone  with  the  colour  of  blood.  Opposite  him  James 
smote  with  fine  conscientiousness  and  attention  to  legality. 

There !  It  was  done.  The  three  stood  victorious  and 
calm  amid  a  pile  of  splintered  chips,  fragments  of  chain, 
padlocks,  pointed  sticks — in  fact,  a  complete  chevaux  de 
frise. 

The  clatter  ceased  suddenly  as  Roy  with  his  foot  swept 
the  larger  fragments  on  to  the  Glenkells  road.  The  forces 
of  the  enemy  were  now  much  augmented,  but  the  desire 
for  attack  was  not  a  whit  keener.  The  three  stood  in  the 
gap  which  they  had  made,  black  against  the  rising  sun, 
and  from  the  midst  of  his  sons,  exceedingly  unafraid, 
Sharon  McCulloch  of  House  of  Muir  spoke  with  his  ene- 
mies in  the  gate. 

"Chesney  Barwhinnock,"  he  began,  lifting  himself 
erect,  "the  Lord  that  is  on  high  answer  ye  according  to 
your  blasphemies.  With  them  I  hae  naething  to  do.  But 
hear  ye  a  word  or  twa." 

"Robertson,  you  swinging  rascal,  you  pitiful  coward," 
cried  the  angry  man,  "go  for  the  military !  Run  for  your 
life!  We  will  have  the  rascals  before  they  can  escape! 
We  will  keep  them  here — bring  the  peace  officers,  the  ex- 
cise— Captain  Brabant!  Confound  your  shivering  soul, 
what  are  ye  standing  there  glowering  for  ?" 

"Ye  will  hold  us,  Chesney  Barwhinnock,"  quoth 
Sharon,  grimly,  "you  and  your  men?  Better  send  them 
all  on  your  errands,  Laird  o'  Bennanbrack!  I  warrant 


92  STRONG  MAC 

they  will  move  the  readier  in  that  direction  than  if  ye 
order  them  to  fall  upon  the  McCullochs  of  the  Hoose  o' 
Muir!  As  for  me,  I  stand  within  my  rights.  Yonder 
is  my  property,  deeded  to  me  by  your  ancestor,  Chesney ! 
You  and  your  lawyers  have  reason  to  ken  how  firmly. 
Neither  you  nor  they  can  break  that.  There  was  a  road 
to  kirk  and  market  frae  yonder  hoose  generations  and 
centuries  afore  ye  were  born.  We  that  dwell  in  the  Hoose 
o'  Muir  are  neither  birds  o'  the  air  to  fly  nor  fish  o'  the  sea 
to  swim.  We  maun  walk  on  God's  earth — we,  our  chil- 
dren, our  cattle  and  the  stranger  within  our  gates!  Ye 
have  locked  the  door  upon  us,  as  if  we  had  been  con- 
demned prisoners — barred  the  gate  against  us  as  against 
thieves.  We  be  free  men  seeking  our  own,  an'  when  we 
find  it  we  take  it.  Here  we  have  made  a  road  broad  and 
plain.  We  have  broken  access  to  our  rights.  Let  any 
dare  to  molest  us  at  their  peril.  If  ye  think  otherwise,  the 
courts  are  open.  Interdict  us  afore  the  Fifteen.  There 
is  enough  in  the  stockin'  foot  at  the  Hoose  o'  Muir  to  face 
ye  there,  even  as  I  face  ye  here.  But  ye  canna.  Ye 
daurna.  Put  up  your  gates — we  will  break  them  doon. 
Lock  your  yetts — we  will  shiver  them  in  pieces  as  we 
have  done  this  day.  And  if  ye  withstand  us,  it  is  at  your 
own  proper  risks.  Ye  have  been  warned  in  the  presence 
of  witnesses.  Moreover,  Chesney  Barwhinnock,  ye  are 
cursed  with  the  curse  of  the  covetous,  of  the  remover  of 
landmarks,  of  the  oppressor  of  the  poor.  But  for  us,  as 
the  Lord  hath  commanded,  we  will  stand  in  the  ways  and 
see.  We  ask  but  for  the  old  paths,  saying,  'Where  is  the 
good  way,  that  we  may  walk  therein  and  find  rest  for  our 
souls?'  Lads,  to  the  schule  wi'  ye,  your  axes  upon  your 
shoothers !  For  me,  I  return  hame  by  the  way  that  I  have 
made  for  myself.  Woe  to  the  man  that  cometh  foment 
me.  Out  o'  the  way,  Chesney  Barwhinnock!  Vanish 
from  before  me,  Tyd  Lambie — and  you,  Pate  Robertson. 
For  the  trumpet  is  blown  in  Tekoa  (which  is  Hoose 
o'  Muir),  and  I  have  seen  a  ball  of  fire  fall  in  Beth- 
hacerem — the  which  I  take  to  be  the  load  o'  Yule  peats 


THE  CAMPAIGN  93 

I  will  deliver  at  your  door,  Maister  Chesney  Barwhinnock, 
Laird  o'  Bennanbrack,  but  not  lord  o'  the  hale  earth,  as 
ye  wad  fain  hae  us  believe !"  f 

And  with  these  words  Sharon  McCulloch  went  through 
the  ranks  of  his  enemies,  scattering  them  before  the  wind 
of  his  coming,  his  crowbar  in  his  hand,  and  the  mighty 
anathemas  and  excommunications  rolling  from  his  lips. 

They  stood  open-mouthed,  gazing  after  him  as  he  went 
forward,  never  looking  behind.  It  was  long  before  their 
feelings  found  vent,  and  then  it  came  rounded  and  com- 
plete from  the  lips  of  the  Laird  himself. 

"D — n!"  said  Chesney  Barwhinnock  of  Bennanbrack, 
Esquire. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  NEW  WORLD  OF  LOWRAN. 

THE  campaign  which  opened  by  the  historic  clearance 
of  the  Bennanbrack  road  raged  with  various  fortunes  for 
three  years.  Not  always  were  the  McCullochs  so  suc- 
cessful, yet  on  the  whole  the  victory  lay  with  them.  And 
for  this  reason.  Among  their  numerous  enemies  was  no 
cohesion,  while  the  McCullochs  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
year  in  and  year  out. 

Moreover,  they  had  sympathisers.  Herds  on  the  hills 
both  near  and  far,  and  especially  herds'  wives,  favoured 
them  with  information,  counsel,  shelter,  food.  Even  the 
ordinary  game-watcher,  paid  his  week's  wage  (but  strictly 
an  hireling),  found  it  to  his  profit  to  turn  his  back  and 
saunter  over  a  knowe  if  he  saw  the  House  of  Muir  lads  at 
work  about  an  animal,  which  might,  of  course,  be  a  braxy 
sheep,  but  again  might  be  one  of  his  master's  deer.  Often 
the  merest  glint  of  Sharon's  tall,  gaunt  figure  defined 
against  the  skyline  has  decided  one  of  Jonathan  Grier's 
underlings  to  remember  a  sudden  call  of  duty  in  an  oppo- 
site direction. 

Then  in  the  black  and  arid  winter,  perhaps  on  the  verge 
of  some  storm  which  would  prevent  the  ill-affected  and 
talebearing  from  circulating  much  among  the  mountains, 
Sharon  or  Roy  would  say  (casually  enough)  to  a  herd 
who  had  showed  himself  complaisant — aye,  it  is  whis- 
pered, even  to  some  of  the  game-watchers  themselves  on 
lonely  station — "Gae  up  the  glen  till  ye  see  twa  sticks 
stelled  in  a  V — then  haud  ower  the  knowe  to  the  richt  a 


THE  NEW  WORLD  OF  LOWRAN          95 

maitter  o'  thretty  yards — turn  ower  some  pulled  heather 
— an'  if  ye  dinna  see  something  that  ye  never  saw  afore, 
come  back  an'  tell  me !"  f 

And  that  night  the  beef-tub  in  the  little  cot  on  the  hills 
would  hold  venison,  and  that  cottier's  tow-headed  chil- 
dren might  be  seen  running  about  for  several  days  with 
a  trickle  of  gravy  browning  the  wicks  of  their  mouths. 

At  House  of  Muir,  Sharon  and  Roy  were  alone  most 
of  the  time  now,  for  Jamie  had  gone  to  Drumfern  to  serve 
his  time  in  a  lawyer's  office,  and  though  he  came  back 
every  Saturday  and  spent  the  Sabbath  (between  the  two 
"takkin's  o'  the  Buik")  in  ways  not  particularly  law-abid- 
ing, he  could  not  be  said  to  belong  to  the  house. 

It  was  by  his  own  will  that  James  had  thus  departed, 
and  the  agreement  drawn  up  as  to  his  expenses  in  Drum- 
fern  showed  that  he  had  not  mistaken  his  profession.  This 
document  provided  that,  until  James  repaid  the  advances 
which  his  father  had  made  to  him  during  his  apprentice- 
ship to  Writer  Greg,  his  brother  Roy  should  be  consid- 
ered sole  heir  to  the  property  of  House  of  Muir.  Further- 
more, if  his  father  advanced  his  elder  son  money  to  estab- 
lish him  in  business,  Roy's  ownership  was  to  become  abso- 
lute. Besides  which,  it  was  provided  that  James  McCul- 
loch  was  at  all  times  to  give  his  legal  services  free  of 
charge  ("expenses  only")  to  his  father  and  brother. 

On  Sharon  himself  little  change  had  passed.  His  tus- 
sock of  grey  hair  might  be  a  thought  more  heron-plumed, 
his  shoulder  blades  more  like  ploughshares,  but  the 
muscles  on  his  lean  wrists  stood  out  more  like  whip- 
cords than  ever.  Years  had  not  dimmed  the  blue  glint  of 
his  eyes,  straight  as  steel,  cold  as  ice,  and  he  fronted  the 
world  as  defiantly,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  more  humorously 
than  before. 

Roy  McCulloch  at  twenty-one  had  filled  out  to  the  meas- 
ure of  his  early  promise.  He  was  not  tall,  but  his  figure 
was  so  beautifully  proportioned  that  only  the  great  mus- 
cles swelling  under  the  smooth  white  skin  and  the  easy 
inevitableness  of  his  every  action  revealed  the  latent  force 


96  STRONG  MAC 

which  lay  beneath.  "Strong  Mac"  he  had  been  even  as 
a  boy,  but  now  they  said  (and  were  believed)  that  there 
were  no  five  men  in  the  county  who  would  care  to  tackle 
Roy  McCulloch  in  open  combat. 

There  was  about  him  still  the  old  air  of  languid  good- 
nature, that  lazy  challenge  of  eye  which  at  once  charmed 
and  irritated  women,  and  upon  occasion  a  quiet,  resistless 
ease  of  action  wholly  different  from  his  father's  fierce 
volcanic  energy. 

In  love  (much  talked  of  in  these  parts)  Roy  was  still 
unattached,  though  ever  and  anon  the  talk  of  his  friend- 
ship with  the  Dominie's  Dora  would  take  to  itself  fresh 
wings  after  he  had  been  seen  swinging  down  the  village 
street  of  Lowran,  turning  sharply  to  the  left,  and  so  up 
the  little  schoolhouse  loaning. 

But,  then,  Roy  McCulloch  always  chose  the  time  when 
most  folk  could  see  him.  The  loungers  on  the  bridge, 
elbows  on  the  parapet  smoking  their  evening  pipe,  joked 
him  sedately  as  he  passed.  The  quoits  were  ringing 
keenly  on  the  village  green.  The  good  gossips  were  out 
on  their  doorsteps  with  stockings  and  white  seams,  and 
they,  too,  greeted  him  with  passing  pleasantries,  as 
tongues  feminine  ran  well  oiled  to  the  click  of  the  needles 
and  the  biting  of  threads. 

So  no  one  believed  very  much  in  the  report  which  they 
themselves  passed  on.  Roy  McCulloch  went  to  see  his 
old  master.  The  two  were  held  great  cronies.  As  to 
other  possibilities — well,  Adora  Gracie  was  a  winsome 
lass.  There  was  no  saying  but  behaviour  less  like  that 
of  Lowran  lovers  could  not  well  be. 

And  Adora  herself?  Ah,  come  into  the  little  school- 
house  and  you  will  see  what  three  years  have  done  for 
her.  Sixteen  to  nineteen — from  the  Old  World  to  the 
New!  And  over  this  dividing  ocean  each  daughter  of 
Eve  must  be  her  own  Columbus. 

Adora  Gracie  had  not  grown  up  according  to  pattern. 
She  was  gipsy-dark  in  a  world  of  girls  lily-white,  flour- 
white,  freckled  white.  Never  a  freckle  was  there  on 


THE  NEW  WORLD  OF  LOWRAN          97 

Adora's  clean  even  tan.  Yet  healthy  colour  throbbed  upon 
occasion  on  her  dusk  cheek.  Perennial  geranium  glowed 
upon  her  lips.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and  fiery  at  once — the 
pupils  large  and  mysterious,  with  a  sense  of  tears  unshed 
behind  them,  alternately  mirthfully  defiant  and  provok- 
ingly  scornful,  eyes  that  could  prick  the  bladder  of  con- 
ceit like  bayonets  and  yet  draw  as  with  cart-ropes  the  pris- 
oners of  Adora's  sword  and  bow. 

Yet  she  had  no  such  general  reputation  for  surpassing 
beauty  such  as  had  Charlotte  Webster.  Three  men  out 
of  four  would  have  preferred  Charlotte,  but  the  fourth 
would  have  flown  at  the  throats  of  the  others  for  a  word 
breathed  against  Adora.  There  was  a  certain  reserve, 
rare  in  such  generous  and  gracious  natures,  a  ready  wit, 
a  mellow  afternoon  charm  about  the  Dominie's  lass  that 
made  her  older  than  her  years,  and  drew  after  her,  not 
the  usual  herd  of  young  night-runners,  but  rather  men 
somewhat  tried  and  experienced,  grave  and  gay  after  their 
kind.  They  came  to  see  the  Dominie.  Of  course !  They 
were  all  interested  in  the  Dominie.  And  so  the  best  talk 
of  the  neighbourhood  was  to  be  heard  in  the  kitchen  place 
of  the  little  schoolhouse  in  the  wood. 

Yet,  for  a  certain  reason  Adora  Gracie  had  few  declared 
suitors.  Charlotte  Webster  had  them  in  strings  and 
shoals,  and  took  credit  therefor.  But  Adora  Gracie  pos- 
sessed the  art  to  see  into  a  man's  feelings  some  way  ahead 
of  himself,  and  (as  Jock  Fairies  said)  "she  keepit  a 
bucket-fu'  o'  cauld  water  on  the  shelf — in  case!"  And 
Jock  had  some  cause  to  know.  He  generally  proposed 
to  her,  or  at  least  made  up  his  mind  to  do  so,  every  Fri- 
day night. 

By  far  the  richest  and  most  determined  of  all  Adora's 
lovers,  and  the  one  whom,  in  popular  estimation,  she  must 
end  by  taking,  was  Sandy  Ewan,  the  Muckle  Sandy  of  the 
Lowran  Ploughing  Match.  He  was  now  his  father's  suc- 
cessor. He  had  several  farms  of  his  own,  a  house  which 
rumour  affirmed  was  being  furnished  to  Adora's  taste, 
while  as  horse-dealer  and  cattle-factor  he  had  few  equals 


98  STRONG  MAC 

and  no  scruples.  With  such  advantages  a  man  would  go 
far,  and  it  was  the  opinion  of  Lowran  that,  "gin  Sandy 
Ewan  wanted  a  woman,  he  wad  get  her  at  the  hinder-end." 

Lowran  had  watched  many  generations  of  stand-offish 
and  head-tossing  parish  belles  who  ended  thus — marrying 
not  the  men  they  liked  best,  but  the  most  persistent,  the 
men  who  wearied  them  the  longest  with  their  much  ask- 
ing. The  knowledge  that  there  is  an  alternative  constantly 
open  to  her,  a  place  at  a  table-head  which  may  be  her  own 
at  any  moment,  money  to  spend,  a  recognised  position 
ready  to  be  claimed,  has  its  effect  upon  the  mind  of  any 
woman — in  time;  that  is — ah!  in  time.  Such  was  the 
philosophy  of  Lowran,  and  the  experience  of  the  past  had 
given  it  some  reason  for  so  thinking. 

Had  not  Tib  Lonnen,  that  tearing  beauty  of  the  Di- 
rectory days,  ended  by  throwing  over  all  the  bucks  of  the 
time  and  marrying  old  Kissock  of  Birkenshaw,  over  fifty, 
snuffy  and  badger-grey  ?  Did  not  Effie  Hill  sit  in  Girder- 
wood  pew  in  Lowran  kirk,  having  migrated  from  that  of 
Hunter ston  just  across  the  aisle?  Her  two  husbands, 
Girderwood  and  Hunterston  (both  deceased),  had  been 
old  men,  with  heavy  "stocking- feet"!  And  so  now  the 
parish  looks  on  a  little  cynically  till  Effie  Hill,  late  of 
Hunterston,  later  still  of  Girderwood,  throws  her  hand- 
kerchief of  the  third  essay.  The  general  opinion  is  that 
this  time  she  will  take  a  young  man  who  will  considerably 

lighten  the  stocking-feet  of  the  deceased. 

******* 

But  the  schoolhouse  and  its  mistress  are  waiting,  and 
must  wait  no  longer. 

Donald  Gracie,  also  three  years  older,  sat  by  the  win- 
dow, a  book  on  his  knee.  He  was  thinner  than  of  old. 
His  hair  was  scantier,  and  there  was  a  fine,  gentle  pallor 
about  him  which  was  very  becoming.  His  hand,  white 
and  delicate,  held  the  book  listlessly,  a  finger  in  the  place. 

But  there  was  a  carefully  tended  look  about  the  Domi- 
nie, very  different  from  what  the  older  folk  of  the  village 
remembered  of  him  in  the  days  before  Adora  had  estab- 


THE  NEW  WORLD  OF  LOWRAN         99 

lished  her  authority.  Most  people  said  that  the  Dominie 
had  wholly  cast  aside  his  ancient  failings.  But  a  few, 
who  knew  the  symptoms,  shook  their  heads  in  private,  or 
wound  their  watches  in  meditative  silence  when  their 
wives  questioned  them  about  the  matter  as  they  were  go- 
ing to  bed. 

All  the  same,  he  was  undeniably  "weel-put-on,"  and 
Adora  was  greatly  thought  of  as  a  manager.  For  the 
Dominie's  income  was  known  to  a  shilling,  and  yet  Adora 
could  oftener  change  a  pound  than  any  other  woman  in 
the  village. 

"Have  you  heard  how  they  divide  the  young  men  of 
Lowran,  Dora?"  said  the  Dominie,  as  with  a  certain  quiz- 
zical expression  in  his  eyes  he  watched  the  girl,  with 
arms  bared  to  the  shoulder,  scouring  a  "berry-pan"  of 
shining  brass  in  readiness  for  the  yet  distant  preserving 
season.  In  the  meanwhile  it  served  as  a  point  of  light 
on  the  kitchen  wall  of  the  schoolhouse,  a  halo  to  which 
suitors  lifted  their  eyes  after  gazing  long  at  Adora. 

"No,  father,"  said  the  girl,  without  any  great  interest. 
"I  thought  the  young  men  of  Lowran  were  all  alike !" 

"I  heard  it  from  Robin  Gilchrist,"  he  said ;  "  'the  Deil's 
Buckies  gang  to  Lucky  Greentree's,  the  Daft  Lads  to 
Charlotte  Webster's,  but  the  Wise-like  to  see  the  Domi- 
nie' !" 

He  chuckled  audibly. 

"The  Wise-like  to  see  the  Dominie!"  he  repeated, 
smilingly.  "Observe  the  prolepsis !" 

"I  observe,"  said  his  daughter,  with  spirit,  "that  we  are 
in  good  company — Lucky  Greentree's,  Charlotte  Webster 
— and  the  schoolhouse !" 

Donald  Gracie  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  the 
only  man  in  Lowran  who  did  this,  till  Sidney  Latimer 
came  home  from  the  wars. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "the  schoolhouse  is  a  health  resort. 
Why  should  we  complain?  Are  we  not  the  club — the 
parliament — the  only  alternative  to  the  other  two?  You 
must  not  complain.  They  are  all  my  old  pupils." 


ioo  STRONG  MAC 

"The  Laird?"  she  queried,  breathing  hard  on  the  ob- 
stinate brass  and  polishing  vigorously. 

"The  Laird?"  said  Donald  Gracie,  meditatively.  "He 
comes,  doubtless,  for  similar  reasons.  A  great  old  empty 
house,  a  deaf  mother  with  a  temper,  and  the  society  of 
servants.  Here — the  pleasure  of  my  society,  books,  some 
wit  if  scant  wisdom — " 

"And  the  pleasure  of  being  set  to  polish  jelly  pans!" 
said  Adora.  "Here,  Laird!  You  are  just  in  time  to  be 
of  some  use  in  the  world." 

She  held  out  the  brass  boiling-pan  to  a  tall  bearded 
youngish  man  who  came  in  at  the  moment.  He  took  it 
from  her  hands  and  stood  waiting  directions.  A  slightly 
uncertain  smile  was  on  his  lips.  No  salutation  passed 
between  any  of  them.  Indeed,  it  was  not  their  first  meet- 
ing. Sidney  Latimer  had  already  "cried  in"  as  he  went 
down  to  the  village  to  meet  the  mail  coach  which  passed 
through  Lowran  every  day  on  its  journey  from  Newton 
Galloway  to  St.  Cuthbertstown. 

"And  the  cloth!"  she  said,  pushing  it  towards  him. 
"Nothing  is  wanting  now  but  elbow-grease !" 

She  herself  drew  the  great  wheel  out  of  the  corner  of 
the  room  and  laid  a  soft  pile  of  "rowns"  (or  wool  for  spin- 
ning rounded  like  macaroni)  on  a  chair  ready  to  her  hand. 
In  a  moment  more  began  the  soft  sough  and  whoo  of  the 
spinning-wheel,  in  those  days  the  greatest  incentive  to 
conversation  of  the  quieter  sort,  because  it  filled  up  the 
gaps  and  gave  every  one  time  to  speak  unhurriedly  or  to 
be  silent  without  awkwardness. 

Shy  men  got  time  to  think.  Exuberant  men  could  be 
repressed.  For  the  spinner  moving  to  and  fro  gracefully, 
easing  and  "raxing"  her  thread,  could  come  in  very  ef- 
fectively as  accompaniment,  sometimes  whooing  so  loud 
as  to  drown  an  awkward  remark,  or  again  stopping  alto- 
gether to  pick  a  knot  off  the  thread,  till  the  sudden  silence 
brought  out  a  sentence  as  if  it  had  been  printed  in  the 
largest  capitals.  Tricksome  Penelopes  often  did  this  of 
malice  prepense. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  OF  LOWRAN         101 


It  was  some  considerable  time  since  the  Laird  of  Low- 
ran  had  begun  to  drop  in  regularly  at  the  schoolhouse. 
As  principal  heritor  of  the  parish  it  was  manifestly  his 
duty,  and  after  a  while  it  became  his  pleasure  also.  Yet 
he  explained  himself  manfully  enough  to  Adora  when, 
as  to-night,  she  took  him  to  task  about  the  matter. 

"Why  do  I  come?"  he  repeated  after  her.  "Well,  per- 
haps the  best  answer  is,  that  I  shall  continue  to  come  so 
long  as  you  permit  me.  I  am  not  leaving  my  own  class 
and  consorting  with  village  folk.  Your  father,  Mistress 
Dora,  is  a  gentleman,  if  ever  I  met  one.  I  have  abun- 
dantly tried  my  'equals/  as  you  call  them,  since  my  re- 
turn. They  are  not  my  equals — nor  yours.  Is  Chesney 
Barwhinnock  my  equal,  who  cannot  make  himself  intelli- 
gible without  a  string  of  oaths?  Or  my  lord  up  yon- 
der at  Cairnsmore,  who  tells  me  thirty  times  in  an  hour 
The  people  must  be  kept  down,  sir !  The  country  is  go- 
ing to  the  dogs,  sir !'  Or  old  Bodden,  who  is  never  happy 
till  he  has  made  every  man  at  his  table  as  drunk  as  him- 
self? No,  madam,  these  are  not  my  equals !" 

"But/'  said  Adora,  "have  you  thought  at  all  of  me  in 
the  matter?" 

The  young  man  with  the  brown  beard  looked  quickly  up 
at  her.  Adora's  eyes  were  on  her  twirling  spindle. 

"I  never  think  of  anything — !" 

"Who-oo-oo-oooooo!"  said  the  spinning-wheel,  op- 
portunely. 

The  noise  stopped  as  soon  as  his  lips  ceased  moving. 
With  a  glance  she  assured  herself  that  her  father  was  deep 
in  his  book,  which  he  had  lifted  from  his  knee  as  soon  as 
the  Laird  began  to  polish  the  brass  berry-pan. 

It  was  his  usual  way  of  entertaining  a  solitary  guest 
to  leave  him  wholly  to  his  daughter. 

"But,"  said  Adora,  "you  forget.  You  do  not  hear  what, 
the  people  say.  I  do !" 

"And  what  do  they  say  ?"  said  the  young  Laird  hastily, 
the  flush  maintaining  itself  on  his  cheek. 


102  STRONG  MAC 


"A  little  thought  will  tell  you  that,"  she  said,  "or  you 
can  ask  Jonathan  Grier.  He  will  inform  you !" 

"I  do  not  care,"  he  began,  and  then  stopped  of  his  own 
accord. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "you  do  not — because  there  is  no 
reason  why  you  should.  But  I — I  have  to  think  of  myself, 
to  speak  for  myself.  My  father — " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  indicated  the  Dominie  to  the 
Laird.  He  was  deep  in  his  Virgil,  his  thin  forefinger 
beating  out  the  time  as  the  familiar  lines  flowed  rhythmi- 
cally in  his  head. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  "I  am  in  a  manner  alone.  You 
are  not  of  our  degree,  whatever  you  may  say.  And — " 
she  added,  this  more  softly  under  cover  of  the  gentlest 
sighing  of  the  spinning-wheel,  "the  Lowran  people  draw 
no  fine  distinctions !" 

"Gross  boors — "  said  the  young  man,  his  brow  dark- 
ening angrily,  "evil-tongued  liars !  If  aught  comes  to  my 
ear  I  will  clean  the  ground  of  them  and  theirs,  and  leave 
not  a  reeking  chimney  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other!" 

There  was  a  curious  smile  on  the  girl's  face  as  she  an- 
swered him. 

"Aye,"  she  said,  "that  were  indeed  a  fine  way  to  stop 
folk  talking.  To  make  my  name  a  byeword  from  bound 
to  bound  of  the  parish — could  the  art  of  man  devise  any 
surer  means  than  that  ?  Oh,  men — men !" 

"Doubtless  they  are  indeed  a  continual  torment  to  you," 
said  Sidney  Latimer,  with  sudden  aggressive  bitterness, 
"yet  I  never  saw  any  one  colder — or  better  able  to  look 
after  herself!" 

For  the  first  time  Adora  Grade's  face  flushed.  There 
was  a  soft,  dangerous  light  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"I  have  learnecTthat  lesson,"  she  said,  quietly.  "All  my 
life  I  have  had  to  think  of  and  care  for  another  before  my- 
self. Good  for  you  if  it  had  been  your  case !" 

"And  do  I  not  think  for  some  one  else?"  he  said,  almost 
too  loudly.  "Pray  tell  me,  of  whom  am  I  thinking  now  ?" 


THE  NEW  WORLD  OF  LOWRAN         103 

"Of  yourself!"  retorted  Adora,  with  perfect  composure. 
"Of  no  one  but  yourself !" 

The  young  man  half  rose  from  his  seat  as  if  to  go,  but 
changing  his  mind,  sat  down  again. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  he  said,  with  a  sigh. 

For  the  space  of  two  "rowns"  Adora  span  on  without 
answering.  The  moaning  of  the  wide,  slim  wheel  filled 
the  house  with  a  sighing  sadness. 

"I  would  have  you  come  less  to  the  schoolhouse.  My 
father,  if  you  wish  for  society,  will  step  over  to  the  Great 
House  of  an  evening  to  talk  with  you.  The  walk  will 
do  him  good.  You  can  have  your  Greek  readings  there 
instead  of  here.  Then  that  dog  of  yours  will  not  sit 
barking  on  my  doorstep,  as  an  advertisement  of  where 
his  master  spends  his  forenights.  Then,  perhaps,  your 
mother  will  not  scowl  when  she  meets  me  or  twitch  her 
dress  to  the  side  lest  it  should  be  defiled  by  my  touch." 

"My  mother — "  cried  the  young  man,  so  vehemently 
that  Donald  Gracie,  who  had  fallen  asleep  over  Virgil — 
dropped  his  book  with  a  crash  and  sat  up,  suddenly  awak- 
ened by  the  noise. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Latimer,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you  will  pardon 
an  old  man — but  I  think  I  am  a  little  fatigued  this  even- 
ing. The  school  was  close  to-day." 

Sidney  Latimer  picked  up  the  book  and  gave  it  courte- 
ously back  to  his  host.  His  mouth  was  grim  under  his 
moustache.  The  Dominie  resumed  his  reading,  turning 
away  his  shoulder  to  catch  a  more  favourable  light 
through  the  trees. 

The  Laird  waited  till  the  musical  throb  of  the  great 
wheel  again  filled  the  air. 

"My  mother,"  he  said  in  a  low,  angry  tone — "if  my 
mother  has — " 

"I  am  sorry  I  spoke  of  that.  It  slipped  out.  It  was 
nothing,"  said  the  girl,  hastily.  "Your  mother  has  every 
right  to  behave  as  she  likes  to  me.  But  as  far  as  in  me 
lies,  I  will  give  her  no  cause.  Nor,  if  I  can  prevent  it, 
will  I  permit  you  to  do  so,  either.  If  you  say  anything 


104  STRONG  MAC 

of  this  to  your  mother,  remember  I  wish  never  to  see  you 
or  to  speak  with  you  again!" 

"Dora — Dora,  you  make  it  hard — hard,"  groaned  the 
young  Laird.  "What  have  I  done  to  be  shut  out  from 
that  which  is  free  to  my  farmers,  to  my  servants,  to  the 
son  of  an  outlaw  poacher  ?  Ah,"  he  continued,  noting  the 
glow  rise  on  her  neck  at  the  word,  "that  is  it !  There  is 
some  one  whom  you  welcome  as  you  never  welcome  me 
— some  one  who  has  other  than  hard  words  from  you !" 

Adora  Gracie  broke  off  her  "rown"  with  a  sharp  snap, 
removed  the  half-filled  spindle,  swept  all  the  fat  coils  of 
wool  into  a  bag,  and  passed  very  erect  to  the  door  which 
led  to  the  staircase. 

"I  bid  you  good-night !"  she  said,  and  going  out,  she  left 
him  sitting. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   CONFIDENTIAL  CONVERSATION. 

As  Sidney  Latimer  took  his  gloomy  angers  off  through 
the  red  boles  of  the  little  schoolhouse  plantation,  he 
met  a  young  man  just  entering  by  the  gate.  He  was 
a  tall  and  broad-shouldered  young  man,  with  a  strongly 
moulded,  clean-shaven,  boyish  face,  remarkably  clear 
forth-looking  eyes,  and  the  easy,  unhurried  carriage  of 
one  who  lives  habitually  in  the  open  air. 

He  was  dressed  like  any  well-to-do  young  farmer, 
and  wore  a  blue  bonnet,  a  grey  homespun  coat,  cut  away 
in  the  prevailing  fashion,  a  long-flapped  waistcoat  of  a 
dark  blue  colour  besprent  with  small  yellow  flowers,  close- 
fitting  knee-breeches,  grey  hose  deeply  lined  down  the  leg 
in  the  fashion  known  as  "rig-and-furrow,"  while  upon  his 
feet  were  strong  moorland  shoes  with  buckles  of  shining 
steel.  He  had  silver  ones  at  home,  but  he  thought  that 
to  wear  them  would  look  conceited,  so  he  left  them  at 
home. 

This,  as  Sidney  Latimer  was  aware,  was  the  son  of  the 
squireen  of  the  Bennanbrack  moors,  Roy  McCulloch  of 
the  House  of  Muir.  As  a  landlord  the  name  was  more 
than  ever  anathema  to  him.  Had  not  Sharon  repeatedly 
defied  the  powers  that  be?  Had  he  not  set  up  corn- 
stooks  after  harvest  to  tempt  their  birds  to  the  slaughter  ? 
Who  but  he  shot  their  roe  deer  and  made  light  of  their 
gamekeepers?  Yet  he  held  to  his  poor  three  hundred 
acres,  in  spite  of  most  advantageous  offers  to  buy  him 
out,  with  a  tenacity  which,  being  a  fair-minded  man  in 
the  main,  the  Laird  of  Lowran  could  not  help  admiring. 


io6  STRONG  MAC 

But  on  this  occasion  the  eyes  of  Sidney  Latimer  were 
sicklied  over  with  jealousy.  And  he  scowled  at  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch  going  up  to  the  schoolhouse  with  a  savage  hu- 
mour which  sat  ill  upon  his  handsome  and  open  face. 
Roy  passed  him  rapidly  with  a  slight  but  courteous  salu- 
tation, his  muscular  legs  carrying  him  out  of  sight  among 
the  trees  before  the  angry  expression  had  faded  off  Lati- 
mer's  face. 

"Hang  him,"  muttered  the  young  Laird.  "So  that  is 
her  choice,  is  it  ?  A  poacher  and  the  son  of  a  poacher !" 

He  stood  on  the  white  road,  switching  his  leg  and  medi- 
tating. 

"I  wonder,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth,  "whether 
things  cannot  be  so  managed  as  to  relieve  the  parish  of 
both  you  and  your  father?" 

Then  a  flush  of  shame  rose  to  the  Laird's  brow,  for  he 
had  been  thinking  of  the  Press-gang. 

"No,  hang  it,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  usual  to  him,  "if  I 
cannot  win  fairly  I  am  not  going  to  play  with  loaded 
dice." 

But,  then,  when  a  man  plays  in  company  he  cannot  al- 
ways prevent  the  loading  of  the  dice  even  with  the  best 
intentions  in  the  world.  So  that  night  Jonathan  Grier, 
who  had  been  waiting  in  the  lodge  for  the  return  of  his 
master  from  the  schoolhouse,  observed  with  interest  the 
unusual  gloom  of  his  countenance,  and  the  air  of  angry 
preoccupation  with  which  he  dwelt  on  the  misdeeds  of  the 
McCullochs.  The  poacher  Sharon  and  his  son  were  be- 
coming a  pest  to  the  neighborhood.  They  were  carrying 
their  lawlessness  with  a  high  hand.  Something  must  be 
done.  Thus  fulminated  the  Laird  of  Lowran,  stamping 
his  way  along  his  own  avenue  to  his  ancient  mansion- 
house. 

Whereupon  Jonathan  Grier,  a  wily  man,  put  two  and 
two  together,  bethinking  him  if  there  was  nothing  to  his 
advantage  in  all  this. 

He  had  seen  Roy  McCulloch  pass  by  on  his  way  to  the 
Dominie's.  He  had  even  cried  him  a  neighbourly  greeting. 


A  CONFIDENTIAL  CONVERSATION      107 

For,  save  in  the  matter  of  business,  there  was  in  Low- 
ran  usually  no  animosity  between  law-breaker  and  law- 
preserver.  Now,  it  is  well  to  repeat  the  fact  that 
Jonathan  Grier  was  a  wily  man.  He  had  come  from  the 
north  of  Ireland  in  the  time  of  the  late  Laird,  and  had 
been  continued  in  his  position  by  Sidney  Latimer,  less 
from  personal  liking  than  because  he  had  made  himself 
necessary  to  the  young  Laird's  peace  of  mind  by  a  cer- 
tain influence  which  the  chief  gamekeeper  possessed  over 
his  mother. 

Mrs.  Latimer  had  never  yet  been  able  to  understand 
that  her  son  was  grown  up  or  that  he  had  attained  an  age 
to  think  on  any  subject  for  himself.  To  her  he  was  still 
the  boy  who  had  been  sent  to  school  to  learn  the  Latin 
grammar,  to  be  birched  into  unwilling  rectitude,  and  who 
at  set  intervals  returned  home  to  be  cosseted  and  posseted 
for  ailments  more  or  less  imaginary.  Still,  upon  going  out 
he  must  be  laid  wait  for  in  the  hall  to  see  that  he  encased 
himself  in  his  proper  muffler  and  overshoes.  Still,  he 
must  be  ambushed  upon  his  return,  that  he  might  give  an 
account  of  himself  and  his  pursuits  during  every  hour  of 
absence. 

"My  Sidney,"  the  Lady  of  Lowran  used  to  say  to  Mrs. 
Rebecca  Purslane,  her  confidential  maid,  "must  never  get 
out  of  the  habit  of  confiding  entirely  in  his  mother.  He 
must  continue  to  tell  me  everything,  and  the  habit  shall 
be  at  once  his  safeguard  and  mine.  No  evii  companion- 
ships !  No  designing  young  women !  I  would  see  through 
them  at  once.  I  would  warn  him.  Nay,  I  would  go  di- 
rect to  the  huzzies  and  tell  them  what  I  thought  of  them  1" 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Rebecca,  shaking  the  black  bugles  on 
her  many-bastioned  headdress,  "there's  that  schoolmaster's 
daughter  on  the  hill.  What  was  the  awesome  thing  I 
heard  the  last  time  I  took  a  quarter  of  a  pound  o'  the 
spoilt  green  tea  ye  couldna  drink  to  Betty  Howdie  in  the 
village?  Betty,  a  godly  woman  and  well  informed, 
telled  me  that  the  young  Laird  was  up  at  the  schoolhouse 
five  nights  out  of  the  lawf u'  six  every  week  in  the  year !" 


io8  STRONG  MAC 

At  this  the  Lady  of  Lowran  shook  her  head  all  the  more 
vehemently. 

"Betty  Howdie  is  one  fool  and  you  another,  Purslane," 
she  cried.  "As  soon  as  you  came  in  I  asked  Sidney  to  tell 
me  the  truth,  and  he  assured  me  that  there  was  nothing  in 
the  report.  He  goes  there  to  read  Greek  with  the  school- 
master, a  very  learned  man.  Besides,  Jonathan  Grier  has 
seen  him  through  the  window,  with  a  book  in  his  hand, 
listening  enraptured  to  the  schoolmaster  expounding  the 
quirky  passages.  And  I  myself  from  the  road  have  heard 
the  girl's  spinning-wheel  bumming  like  a  bees'  byke  a'  the 
time  Sidney  was  in  at  his  lesson !" 

As  she  listened  Mrs.  Rebecca  laid  the  points  of  her  long, 
bony  fingers  together  and  cast  her  eyes  upwards,  a  graven 
image  of  a  virgin  martyr.  She  had  her  sufferings  with  \ 
her  mistress,  and  for  the  last  fifteen  years  had  resolved 
to  change  her  place  at  least  three  times  a  week.  But  the 
carelessness  of  her  superior  and  the  perquisites  of  her 
office  more  than  made  up  for  the  many  names  which  the 
Lady  of  Lowran  called  her  when,  as  Purslane  put  it,  she 
was  "sore  left  to  herself  and  forsaken  by  grace !" 

On  the  present  occasion  the  waiting-maid  knew  that 
Mrs.  Latimer  was  not  nearly  so  comfortable  in  her  mind 
as  she  would  have  herself  believe.  But  Purslane  was  far 
too  experienced  a  maid  to  say  so.  She  had  not  striven 
with  her  own  "poor  defunct"  so  long  without  knowing 
that,  in  love  as  in  war,  a  flank  attack  succeeds  much 
oftener  than  a  frontal  one.  So  she  let  the  lady  satisfy 
herself  as  to  the  harmlessness  of  Adora  Gracie  before  sug- 
gesting that  the  next  time  they  went  to  the  village  to- 
gether they  should  both  of  them  call  upon  such  a  desirable 
neighbour. 

"If  she's  a'  that  ye  say,  she  deserves  to  be  encouraged," 
pursued  Purslane,  diplomatically,  "and  I  am  sure  the 
young  woman  wad  be  mightily  complimented  by  a  visit 
from  your  Leddyship." 

But  "her  Leddyship"  declined  to  be  mollified  so 
simply. 


A  CONFIDENTIAL  CONVERSATION      109 


"Ye  are  a  silly  auld  body,  Purslane/'  she  cried  imperi- 
ously. "What  would  I  be  doing,  encouraging  any  young 
person  to  think  herself  above  her  position  ?" 

At  which  Purslane  sighed  and  maintained  that  pe- 
culiarly elevated  silence  which  always  aggravated  her  mis- 
tress. 

"Why  can  you  not  speak  when  you  have  anything  to  say, 
Rebecca  Purslane?"  she  said.  "There — dinna  pretend  to 
greet!  Woman,  ye  ought  to  be  ashamed — at  your  time 
of  life  to  be  a  perfect  waterworks.  Yes,  of  course  you 
are  a  lonely  widow,  and  a  deil's  sicht  better  off  than  when 
Purslane  was  alive,  if  the  tenth  part  o'  what  ye  hae  telled 
me  be  true !  Speak  out,  woman,  if  ony  word  you  have  to 
say  is  worth  a  sensible  woman's  listening  to !" 

"Ah,"  said  Purslane,  mournfully,  "I  will  speak  that 
which  is  sore  upon  my  heart.  It  is  that  though  by  the 
blessing  of  a  kind  Providence,  still  able  for  my  work,  the 
day  will  come  when  I  shall  desire  to  take  a  little  rest  from 
my  labours — " 

"Your  labours,"  cried  her  mistress,  growing  more  hotly 
indignant,  and  also  in  speech  more  colloquial.  "Do  ye 
think  that  bringing  me  my  cap  twice  a  day,  and  girning 
like  a  sheepshead  in  the  tongs  the  rest  of  your  time,  is 
'labour'?  If  that  is  your  idea  of  labour,  ye  have  passed 
brave  and  easy  through  the  world — that's  a'  I  hae  to  say 
to  you?  But  what  are  ye  driving  at,  Purslane?  Let  us 
hae  it!" 

"Weel,"  said  Purslane  primly,  as  though  suffering  in 
silence  those  scorns  which  patient  merit  from  the  unwor- 
thy takes,  "what  thinks  your  Leddyship  of  asking  the 
young  woman  at  the  schoolhouse  to  come  and  bide  here — 
to  learn  under  me,  as  it  were,  that  in  time  when  I  am  laid 
aside  she  might  be  able  in  some  measure  to  fill  my  place  ?" 

As  if  propelled  by  a  spring  the  Lady  of  Lowran  rose 
from  her  chair,  and  taking  Purslane  by  the  shoulders, 
gave  her  a  shake  that  made  the  bugles  clash  on  her  cap. 

"O'  all  the  unconscionable  idiots,"  she  cried,  "Becky 
Purslane,  ye  are  the  crown !  To  think  that  ye  hae  spent 


i  io  STRONG  MAC 

as  muckle  time  on  the  Footstool,  and  yet  hae  acquired  nae 
mair  gumption  than  an  unspeaned  calf !  Providence  has, 
indeed,  weared  a  deal  mair  hard  wark  on  you  than  It  will 
ever  get  back  its  ain  siller  for!  To  speak  o'  bringin'  a 
young  woman  into  the  quiet  house  of  Lowran — and  an 
innocent  laddie  like  Sidney  in  it.  What  for  do  ye  think 
I  keep  the  like  o'  you — an  auld  done  body  that  there  is 
neither  sense  nor  wark  in — no  to  speak  o'  Isabel  Byres 
there,  wha  is  but  a  gizzened  tub  and  canna  even  see  when 
she  washes  a  neckerchief  clean,  and  bleared  cook  Ailie  in 
the  kitchen,  wha's  face  wad  fricht  auld  Nickieben  him- 
self frae  laying  a  hand  on  her  in  ony  wrangous  way — 
what  for  are  the  like  o*  you  aboot  the  Lowran  but  that 
the  bairn  that  has  been  gi'en  to  me  may  be  delivered  frae 
the  temptations  o'  the  flesh — at  least  in  his  ain  mither's 
house?" 

"Aye,"  said  Purslane,  moving  her  head  this  way  and 
that  gingerly  to  make  sure  that  it  had  not  been  shaken 
off  her  shoulders,  "that's  as  may  be.  I  am  a  poor  widow 
woman  and  think  naething  o'  the  gauds  o'  the  flesh  or  o' 
the  beauty  o'  adornment,  being  content  in  my  humble 
sphere  with  the  ornamentation  o'  a  meek  and  contented 
spirit.  But  yet,  maybe  if  there  was  somewhat  mair  at- 
traction in  the  House  of  Lowran,  the  young  maister  might 
be  inclined  to  bide  a  kennin'  nearer  hame!  I  mind  aye 
what  said  godly  Mr.  Whittaker,  of  Cauldslaps  Meeting 
Hoose  in  his  fast-day  Exercise  and  Addition,  that  be- 
tween the  young  and  the  auld  there  was  a  great  gulf 
fixed!" 

"Daft  havers,"  cried  the  old  lady.  "I  ken  ye,  Purs- 
lane. Ye  will  hae  some  lang-leggit  limmer  o'  a  niece  o' 
your  ain  to  propose !  But  I'll  never  let  a  young  hempie 
within  my  doors  in  the  way  o'  service.  And  as  for  vis- 
itors— faith,  they  will  wait  lang  for  an  invite  frae  me !" 

"But  the  Laird  will  doubtless  marry  some  day,"  sug- 
gested Purslane,  with  artful  meekness,  "and  life  is  an  un- 
certain thing  at  the  best.  Like  mysel',  your  Leddyship  is 
getting  well  stricken  in  years.  Were  it  not  wiser  to  look 


A  CONFIDENTIAL  CONVERSATION      in 

for  a  wife  to  him  yoursel',  rather  than  leave  him  to  be 
trappit  by  the  first  that  whistles  'Come  hither'  ower 
thewa'?" 

"Ye  forget  yoursel',  Purslane,"  cried  the  mistress  of 
Lowran.  "In  the  first  place,  I  am  mony  and  mony  a  year 
younger  than  you  (here  Purslane  smiled  discreetly  behind 
her  seam),  and,  secondly,  Sidney  is  but  a  laddie.  There 
will  be  time  enough  to  think  o'  his  marrying  ony  time 
these  ten  years  to  come.  I  could  never  be  doing  with  a 
fine  lady  to  sit  in  the  parlour  and  turn  her  thumbs  aboot 
ilk  ither.  But  I'll  no  deny  that,  if  I  could  find  a  biddable 
lass  o'  decent  family  wi'  a  reasonable  pickle  siller,  she 
micht  be  handy  for  dusting  the  cheena  ornaments  on  the 
upstairs  mantelpiece.  What  wi'  age  and  laziness,  ye  are 
gettin'  that  handless  and  useless  whiles,  that  I  declare 
there  will  soon  be  never  a  thing  left  breakable  in  Lowran 
Hoose  except  the  chimney  cans.  And,  faith,  ye  wad 
break  them,  too,  if  ye  could  win  at  them !" 

"There's  Catherine  Bodden  of  Buttonbotham — she's  a 
fine  lass,  they  tell  me,"  pursued  Purslane,  who  by  long 
practice  kept  to  the  matter  in  hand  with  steadfast  per- 
sistence through  all  the  storms  of  insult  with  which  her 
mistress  assailed  every  expression  of  opinion. 

"A  heedless  haverel!"  cried  Mrs.  Latimer,  jerking  her 
work  in  the  air  so  vigorously  that  she  lost  her  needle,  and 
wasted  much  time  seeking  for  it.  This  being  found,  Purs- 
lane had  to  be  assisted  up  from  her  knees,  which  always 
stiffened  in  the  act  of  kneeling  and  refused  to  do  their 
duty  in  raising  her  from  the  ground. 

"Weel,  mem,  what's  your  thocht  o'  the  Lady  Elspeth, 
or  the  Lady  Biddy  Lennox  ?"  was  the  next  suggestion  of 
the  maid  when  they  were  again  seated  at  their  tasks. 

"Proud  madams  baith  the  twa  o'  them — they  shall  never 
come  within  this  house  with  my  will !" 

"It  wad  be  a  great  phrase  in  the  country  if  the  Laird 
mairriet  the  dochter  o'  a  Viscount !" 

"A  Latimer  o'  Lowran  is  as  guid  as  ony  Lennox  that 
ever  wore  hippens !"  cried  the  emphatic  lady  of  that  ilk. 


STRONG  MAC 

"  said  Purslane,  soothingly.  "Far  be 
it  frae  me  to  say  aught  other — or  to  think  it.  But  they 
tell  me  this  Lady  Biddy  is  a  bonny  biddable  lass !" 

"I  would  never  agree  with  their  mither!"  cried  Mrs. 
Latimer.  "They  shall  not  come  here  into  my  house — no, 
though  I  hae  to  bar  the  door  in  the  faces  of  the  hale 
Hoose  o'  Peers,  an'  a'  the  bink  o'  Bishops  at  their  tail !" 

"Then,  there's  Doctor  Meiklewham's  daughter,  Hope," 
pursued  the  mentor.  "They  tell  me  there's  no  the  like  o' 
her  for  a  sober,  solid,  wise-like  lass — the  pick  o'  the  pair- 
ish,  and  the  apple  o'  her  faither's  eye !" 

"Let  her  bide  wi'  her  faither,  then,  gin  he's  sae  fond 
o'  her.  Nae  lass  wi'  sic  a  covenanting  fore-end  name 
shall  ever  get  my  son.  'Hope,'  indeed !  It  might  as  weel 
hae  been  'Faith'  or  'Charity'  !" 

"'Deed,  then,  mistress,  but  ye  are  ill  to  please  wi'  a 
wife  for  your  son,"  said  Purslane,  who  had  much  liberty 
of  speech  with  her  mistress.  "It's  my  puir  opinion  that 
ye  dinna  want  him  to  be  wed  ava' — " 

"Let  be,"  said  the  Lady  of  Lowran.  "It's  little  ye  ken 
aboot  the  needs  o'  ancient  families,  Rebecca  Purslane! 
Think  ye  that  it  would  not  be  a  sore  day  for  me  to  think 
that  my  son  was  to  be  the  last  Latimer  of  Lowran  ?" 

"Whilk  he  is  mair  nor  likely  to  be,  mistress,"  said  Purs- 
lane, some  little  nettled,  "gin  ye  forbid  every  honest  lass 
the  door  o'  your  hoose,  as  if  she  carried  the  plague  aboot 
wi'  her  in  the  faulds  o'  her  kerchief." 

"Forbid  here,  forbid  there !"  cried  the  irascible  old  lady. 
"I  forbid  nane.  The  Hoose  o'  Lowran  is  my  son's — no 
mine.  And  if  it  is  his  guid  will  to  bring  the  wife  he  fan- 
cies hame  to  this  dwelling,  I  hope  that  I'll  be  strengthened 
to  do  my  duty  by  his  choice !" 

"Guid  pity  her,  then!"  ejaculated  Purslane  under  her 
breath,  but  not  low  enough  to  escape  the  sharp  ears  of  her 
mistress. 

"Ye  are  an  insolent,  ungrateful  woman,  Rebecca  Purs- 
lane," she  broke  out,  "and  I  wad  hae  ye  ken  that  what  I 
have  to  put  up  with  frae  you  and  the  ither  twa  wizened 


A  CONFIDENTIAL  CONVERSATION      113 


fairlies  aboot  the  Hoose  o'  Lowran  mak's  a*  other  trou- 
bles o'  little  account.  I  ken  well  I  hae  the  repute  o'  being 
snell-tongued,  but  that  is  because  my  heart  within  me  is 
chastened  by  you  and  the  like  o'  you.  And  whiles  ye  try 
me  that  sair,  that  (Heaven  is  my  witness!)  either  death 
or  my  son's  marriage  wad  be  a  welcome  relief !" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

INFLUENCE  BY  RICOCHET. 

Now  Rebecca  Purslane  was  a  wise  woman  and  knew 
her  mistress'  temper.  She  influenced  by  ricochet. 

No  words  could,  to  all  appearance,  have  been  more 
utterly  thrown  away,  no  seed  sown  on  poorer  soil  with 
less  prospect  of  harvest,  than  the  suggestions  concerning 
the  entrance  of  some  young  person  of  her  own  sex  into 
the  dragon-guarded  House  of  Lowran.  But  the  aged 
Purslane  was  wily.  She  had  lived  long  with  Mrs.  Lati- 
mer,  and  knew  that  the  surest  way  to  have  her  opinions 
adopted  was  to  keep  ding-donging  at  them,  allowing  the 
Lady  of  Lowran  no  rest  day  nor  night.  For  Purslane 
slept  in  the  same  room  as  her  employer. 

"Hush,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer  at  the  close  of  this  first 
round  of  the  engagement,  "there  is  the  hall  door.  Sid- 
ney has  come  home !" 

"I  hae  little  need  to  'hush/  said  the  attendant,  tartly. 
"It  wasna  me  that  was  speakin' !" 

The  Lady  of  Lowran  lifted  her  finger  so  threateningly 
that  Rebecca  contented  herself  with  shaking  her  head  til 
the  black  bugles  rang  a  perfect  fire  alarm  on  her  head 
Then  her  mistress  quietly  laid  down  her  seam  and  went 
out.  So  soon  as  she  was  gone  Purslane  threw  herself 
back  on  the  cushions  of  her  chair  and  laughed  silently 
laughed  till  the  tears  traced  out  furrows  on  her  wrinklec 
cheeks. 

"The  fule !"  she  murmured.     "Oh,  the  auld  f ule !" 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Mrs.  Latimer  went  into  the  hall  expecting  to  see  her  son 
It  was  his  custom  to  take  off  his  boots  in  a  little  side  room 
devoted  to  guns,  dog-whips  and  the  smell  of  varnish 


INFLUENCE  BY  RICOCHET  115 

But  on  this  occasion  Sidney  Latimer  went  directly  to  the 
library.  His  mother  followed  him  thither,  her  face,  as 
was  its  custom,  growing  mellower  and  more  kindly  at 
every  step.  By  the  time  she  stood  on  the  mat  outside 
the  door  which  he  had  hastily  closed  no  trace  remained 
of  the  sharp-tongued,  acerb  old  lady  who  had  so  recently 
been  sparring  with  her  long-suffering  companion. 

She  opened  the  door  gently.  Her  son  was  seated  at  his 
desk,  scribbling  furiously.  Presently  he  thrust  the  sheet 
of  paper  from  him,  and  sat  biting  the  feather  of  a  pen 
as  if  meditating  upon  what  more  he  was  to  write  on  the 
white  surface. 

Very  boyish  and  ardent  he  seemed,  in  spite  of  his  beard 
and  the  self-contained  look  he  owed  to  his  English  edu- 
cation. He  started  up  in  some  confusion  upon  Mrs.  Lati- 
mer's  entrance. 

"Ah,  mother,"  he  said,  rising  to  salute  her,  "I  did  not 
hear  you  come  downstairs !" 

"I  came  to  see  if  you  were  at  all  fatigued,"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  you  ought  to  take  something  before  dinner !" 

"I  thank  you,  mother,"  said  the  young  man,  restive  un- 
der the  attention,  "but  I  am  not  tired." 

"You  have  been  on  the  hills  again  ?  You  have  been  at 
the  fishing?" 

»It  was  the  lady  who  was  fishing. 
"No,  mother,"  said  Sidney  Latimer,  elaborately  care- 
less, "I  only  walked  over  to  meet  the  coach  in  the  village. 
I  had  some  letters  to  post." 

His  mother  looked  at  him  softly  for  a  moment.  He 
stood  by  the  mantelpiece,  still  chafing  at  the  interruption 
to  his  writing.  She  divined  the  feeling  instantly.  The 
discussion  she  had  had  with  Purslane  began  to  make  itself 
felt.  She  walked  over  to  him  and  laid  a  hand  gently  on 
his  coat-sleeve.  (Though  she  did  not  know  it,  the  views 
she  now  held  were  Purslane's,  not  her  own.) 

"Sidney,"  she  said,  "you  are  lonely  here,  with  no  other 
companions  than  a  couple  of  old  women — one  of  them  a 
fool." 


n6  STRONG  MAC 

"No,  mother,"  he  smiled  down  at  her  with  the  wistful 
detachment  of  only  sons,  "I  am  not  lonely  at  Lowran.  I 
have  you." 

In  fact,  he  might  have  added  that  at  that  moment  he 
desired  to  be  somewhat  more  lonely  than  he  was.  He 
almost  prayed  for  his  mother's  departure.  Yet,  as  sons 
go  he  was  a  good  son,  and  as  for  Mrs.  Latimer,  she  never 
looked  at  him  without  seeing  a  little  boy  in  his  first 
knee-breeches.  She  saw  even  the  silver  buckles  on  his 
shoes.  It  would  save  much  trouble  if  sons  could  always 
remain  as  their  mothers  keep  them  pictured  in  their 
hearts. 

"You  need  some  bright  young  person  in  the  house," 
pursued  Mrs.  Latimer,  to  Sidney's  astonishment.  "What 
say  you  to  your  cousin  Matilda  from  Parton?  Think, 
dear  Sidney — she  would  also  be  a  companion  for  me,  your 
mother.  Purslane  is  old  and  a  fool.  A  young  girl  in 
the  house  would  brighten  us  all !" 

"Well,  mother,"  said  Sidney,  smiling,  "do  as  you  like. 
Ask  Matilda  Gregory  from  Parton,  or  all  the  six  Greg- 
orys, if  it  please  you.  Only  pray  don't  expect  me  to  dance 
attendance  on  them!" 

His  mother  hastened  on,  in  order  to  keep  him  from 
further  speech. 

"Then,  if  we  had  a  young  girl  in  the  house  to  be  com- 
panion for  them,  I  daresay  some  o'  the  Boddens  of  But- 
tonbotham  or  the  Lennox  sisters  would  come  on  a  visit ! 
Or  what  say  you  to  that  nice  lass  o'  the  minister's  ?  She 
is  well-reported  of?" 

"Mother,"  said  Sidney  Latimer  seriously,  "what  has 
come  to  you?  You  are  troubled  and  not  like  yourself. 
Tell  me!" 

And  most  strangely  at  these  words  the  erstwhile  fierce 
old  lady  burst  into  tears. 

"It  is  about  you  I  am  troubled,  Sidney,"  she  said.  Her 
hands  were  shaking  and  her  lips  quivered  with  that  tremu- 
lousness  of  age  which  the  will  cannot  stop. 

"Anxious     about    me?"     repeated     Sidney     Latimer, 


INFLUENCE  BY  RICOCHET  117 

vaguely.      "In    what    way    am    I    giving    you    anxiety, 
mother?" 

"Oh,  I  dare  not  tell  you,"  she  sighed,  "I  dare  not — you 
would  be  sore  angered.  And  that  I  could  not  bear!" 

Sidney  Latimer  blushed  with  a  secret  forecasting  that 
if  she  meant  to  speak  to  him  of  Adora  Gracie,  he  would 
be  very  angry  indeed.  He  called  this  conscious  innocence. 
So  there  was  constrained  silence  between  them  for  some- 
thing like  a  brace  of  minutes.  Then  the  old  lady  let  her 
i  hand  drop  from  his  arm. 

"Ah  yes,"  she  murmured,  "I  see  you  would  be  angry. 
You  love  her!" 

Sidney  Latimer  flushed  dark  and  his  eyes  looked  as  a 
son's  eye  ought  never  to  look  at  his  mother. 

"Oh,  do  not  be  angry,  Sidney,"  she  cried,  catching  him, 
"how  can  I  help  it?  You  are  all  I  have — all  I  ever  had!" 

But  a  whiteness  was  creeping  over  her  son's  face, 
a  kind  of  icy  chill  which  was  unspeakably  terrible  to  her. 
Her  boy  seemed  to  vanish  before  her  eyes,  and  only  a 
stranger  remained. 

"Oh,  Sidney !"  was  all  she  could  say,  breaking  into  the 
folk  speech  that  lay  near  the  heart,  "dinna  look  at  me 
like — like  your  faither !" 

******* 

"Some  one  has  been  telling  lies  to  you,  mother,"  said 
the  young  man,  commanding  his  voice  (he  could  not  com- 
mand his  face).  "I  request  to  be  told  who?" 

"Oh,"  quavered  the  old  lady,  "do  not  'request'  of  your 
own  mother,  Sidney.  That  also  is  like  your  father,  and  I 
want  to  forget  it.  Be  my  boy  and  I  will  tell  you — word  for 
word!" 

"Tell  me !"  he  said,  inflexibly  stern. 

"Sit  down,  Sidney — oh,  sit  down — I  think  I  could 
speak  to  you  better  that  gate.  I  think — ye  wadna  be — 
sae  far — frae  your  auld  mither !" 

Oh,  the  pitiful  ones  who,  having  set  up  idols,  and 
worshipped  them,  go  all  their  lives  in  fear  of  their  gods' 
angers ! 


n8  STRONG  MAC 

"No,  I  will  not  sit  down,  mother/'  reiterated  Sidney 
Latimer,  "tell  me  what  you  have  heard.  Then  after  I 
have  answered,  I  will  sit  down." 

He  did  not  mean  to  be  hard,  but  there  comes  a  time  in 
the  life  of  a  young  man  when  the  voice  of  every  woman 
but  one  falls  dull  upon  the  ear.  At  such  times  let  mothers 
see  to  it  that  their  words  are  few  and  well  ordered — and 
the  fewer  the  better ! 

If  otherwise,  they  may  come  to  cry  bitterly,  "Blessed  are 
the  barren,  the  wombs  that  never  bare,  the  breasts  whereon 
never  child  lay." 

Yet  in  a  little  age  and  pitifulness  did  their  work  on 
Sidney  Larimer's  heart.  True,  he  would  not  soften  till  he 
had  heard  the  worst,  but — he  was  no  son  to  bring  grey 
hairs  down  to  any  sorrow,  if  he  could  help  it. 

"They  told  me,"  she  began  falteringly. 

"Who?"  interjected  Sidney  Latimer,  determinedly. 

"Oh,  this  one  and  that  about  the  village,"  said  his 
mother,  hastening  over  the  point,  "they  say  that  you  pass 
every  house  in  the  street  to  spend  your  time  at  one — with 
the  schoolmaster's  daughter." 

"And  if  so,"  said  he,  stiffly,  "what  harm?" 

"What  harm  ?"  repeated  his  mother.  "Are  you  not  Sid- 
ney Latimer  of  Lowran,  your  father's  son  ?  Are  you  not 
laird  of  the  best  estate  in  the  parish,  and  you  ask  what 
harm  ?" 

"Let  that  alone  for  the  moment,"  he  said.  "Has  anyone 
aught  to  say  against  Adora  Grade?" 

"Not  a  word,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer,  truthfully,  "except 
that,  being  what  she  is,  the  daughter  of  a  drunken  father, 
herself  a  village  schoolmistress,  she  does  very  wrong  to 
encourage  a  man  in  my  son's  position !" 

Sidney  Latimer  laughed  suddenly  and  harshly,  and  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice  the  mother's  face  blanched.  She 
knew  that  strange  clanging  discord  which  rings  in  a 
man's  laughter  when  he  mocks  bitterly  at  himself. 

"Help  me,  my  God,"  was  the  prayer  of  her  heart,  "is 
it  even  now  too  late?" 


INFLUENCE  BY  RICOCHET  119 

But  as  if  in  answer  to  her  thought  Sidney  Latimer 
stepped  slowly  from  the  mantelpiece  against  which  he 
had  been  leaning,  to  the  open  desk.  He  lifted  the  sheet 
of  paper  he  had  instinctively  pushed  aside  on  his  mother's 
entering. 

"Read  that!"  he  said. 

Flustered  by  his  precipitancy  the  old  lady  felt  in  her 
hanging  pocket  of  black  satin  for  her  silver  spectacles. 
Her  hands  were  trembling  so  that  she  could  hardly  find  the 
case. 

"Read  it  to  me !"  she  said,  gently. 

"No,"  said  Sidney  Latimer,  "read  with  your  own  eyes 
and  tell  me  if,  after  that,  you  think  that  the  drunken  man's 
daughter  has  encouraged  your  son !" 

His  mother  went  slowly  to  the  window  to  get  the  warm 
light  from  the  west  upon  the  sheet.  Only  a  few  lines 
had  been  written,  and  those  with  the  extremity  of  haste. 

"To  Miss  Adora  Grade,  At  the  School  House  of  Lowran. 

"Madam:  Since  your  rejection  of  my  proffered  friend- 
ship this  evening  and  your  commands  not  to  return  to  your 
house,  I  have  resolved  to  place  my  feelings  for  you  and  my 
admiration  of  your  character  beyond  the  reach  of  miscon- 
struction, by  immediately  quitting  the  country. 

"My  friend  General  Barnard,  presently  with  my  Lord 
Wellington's  forces  in  Spain,  has  offered  me — " 

The  paper  fluttered  to  the  floor.  The  old  lady  took 
two  or  three  uncertain  steps  towards  where  her  son 
stood. 

"Sidney,"  she  cried,  "you  will  not — oh,  you  will  not. 
Would  you  kill  your  mother?" 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  towards  him  wildly. 

He  caught  her  and  sat  her  on  a  couch.  Then  he  sat 
down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand  with  more  than  usual 
tenderness. 

"Listen,  mother,"  he  said;  "you  say  (and  she  says) 
that  I  compromise  her  by  remaining.  She  would  not 


120  STRONG  MAC 

listen  to  me  to-night  when  I  would  have  told  her  that  I 
loved  her." 

"Then  you  have  not  yet  told  her?"  cried  his  mother, 
a  sharp  joy  in  her  heart  which  she  tried  in  vain  to  keep 
out  of  her  voice. 

"No  matter — she  knows !"  said  her  son,  "and  she  will 
not  listen  to  me.  Her  reasons  are  yours — her  father — my 
position.  But  the  expression  of  them  does  her  more 
honour  then  they  do  my  mother,  when  she  insults  me 
by  repeating  the  tattle  of  the  village." 

"It  was  not  I — ,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer  feebly,  "Jonathan 
Grier— " 

"Ah,"  cried  the  young  man,  "Jonathan  Grier !  Are  we 
coming  to  it  now?  And  what  had  he  to  do  with  the 
matter?" 

"Nothing — nothing,"  said  his  mother  with  eagerness. 
"I  mistook — I  promised !" 

Sidney  Latimer  did  not  persist.  He  only  made  a  mental 
note  with  regard  to  his  chief  gamekeeper.  His  mother 
took  him  by  both  hands. 

"You  will  not  leave  me?"  she  said,  adding  slowly,  the 
words  forcing  themselves  out,  "I  will  forgive  even  that — 
I  will  do  all  that  you  wish,  if  you  really  love  this  girl !" 

It  was  a  terrible  strain,  but  the  desire  to  keep  her  son 
by  her  side  and  in  safety  conquered  all  else. 

Sidney  Latimer  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"It  cannot  be,  mother,"  he  said.  "As  you  used  to  sing, 
I  have  gotten  my  fee  and  my  leave.  Less  than  any  com- 
mon village  wooer  can  I  trespass  again  upon  an  absolute 
prohibition,  or  cross  the  threshold  which  has  been  forbid- 
den to  me !" 

"You,  the  Laird — who  could  send  Dominie  and  Do- 
minie's lass  about  their  business  with  a  word  to  the  Kirk 
Sessions." 

"All  the  more  because  of  that,"  he  said,  with  a  stead- 
fast determination,  "what  would  you  think  of  me  if  I  were 
to  use  my  position  to  revenge  myself  upon  an  innocent 
girl  who  has  every  right  to  her  own  opinion  of  me?" 


INFLUENCE  BY  RICOCHET  121 

The  Lady  of  Lowran  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  flamed 
into  anger. 

"That  she  should  make  light  of  my  son — that  the  huzzy 
should  dare  to  scorn — !" 

"Stop,  mother,"  he  smiled  upon  her,  "do  not  be  angry. 
Think  how  much  more  angry  you  would  have  been  if 
Adora  Gracie  had  seen  fit  to  take  me  at  my  word !'" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

LOVE  BY  RESOLUTION. 

WHEN  Roy  McCulloch  tapped  at  the  door  of  the  school- 
house  of  Lowran,  the  spinning-wheel  had  been  pushed 
into  its  corner,  and  Adora  Gracie,  her  temper  somewhat 
restored  by  her  victory  over  Sidney  Latimer,  was  settling 
herself  to  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  day's  employment — 
the  hour's  quiet  reading  which  preceded  her  ten-o'clock 
bedtime. 

If  the  girl  were  indeed  glad  to  see  Strong  Mac  the 
feeling  certainly  did  not  show  on  her  face  in  the  way  of 
shyness  or  maidenly  coyness. 

"Roy  McCulloch/'  she  said,  sternly,  as  she  looked  at 
him,  "had  you  nothing  to  keep  you  from  raking  the  roads, 
that  you  must  come  here  to  spoil  my  one  good  hour?" 

Roy  smiled,  but  had  too  much  judgment  to  say  anything 
till  he  found  himself  being  greeted  by  his  old  school- 
master with  Donald  Gracie's  invariable,  "Ah,  lad,  but  I 
was  thinking  you  had  forgotten  your  old  Dominie !" 

"Little  fear  of  that,  sir,"  said  Strong  Mac,  cheerfully, 
"you  gave  us  too  good  cause  to  remember  you  each  time 
we  take  a  book  into  our  hands." 

"Well,  here's  a  Virgil,"  cried  Donald  Gracie,  "open  it 
and  let  us  see  if  by  any  chance  you  can  still  construe  a 
page !" 

This  also  was  a  request  (having  the  force  of  a  com- 
mand) repeated  upon  the  occasion  of  every  visit,  and  in 
anticipation  of  it  Roy  always  prepared  himself  carefully 
for  the  ordeal. 


LOVE  BY  RESOLUTION  123 

To-night,  however,  he  was  not  to  be  permitted  to 
escape  so  easily  as  usual.  Adora,  who  suspected  his  de- 
vice, reached  her  hand  across  for  the  book. 

"There  is  a  passage  in  the  Second  Book  I  could  not 
make  out/'  she  said,  "perhaps  we  might  look  at  it  and 
Roy  can  tell  us  what  he  thinks  is  the  proper  rendering !" 

"Yes — yes,  that  is  wise!"  cried  the  old  man,  rubbing 
his  hands  gleefully,  "many  men,  many  minds.  Construe, 
Roy,  construe !" 

Strong  Mac  cast  a  reproachful  glance  at  his  tormentor, 
well  knowing  the  reason  of  her  sudden  interest  in  Virgil. 
But  he  recovered  himself  in  time  to  demand  of  Adora 
the  details  of  her  difficulty,  which,  when  she  had  dis- 
covered and  declared,  he  found  to  be  also  a  stumbling 
block  of  old  standing  to  himself,  and  forthwith  with 
great  gravity  referred  the  whole  matter  to  the  Dominie. 

Donald  Gracie  took  the  book  with  a  glow  of  pleasure 
in  his  eyes,  and  at  once  launched  into  a  learned  prelection 
with  much  turning  of  leaves,  quotation  of  parallel  pas- 
sages, and  discussion  of  the  niceties  of  language. 

Adora  sat  by  the  window,  her  small  head  a  little  to 
the  side,  listening  mischievously.  She  was  perfectly  con- 
scious that  Roy  McCulloch  was  watching  her.  The  young 
men  who  came  to  the  schoolhouse  seldom  failed  to  do 
that. 

The  translation  having  been  made  out,  and  Adora's 
difficulty  solved  without  seeming  to  interest  that  young 
lady  very  markedly,  the  Dominie  continued  to  finish  the 
book  for  his  own  pleasure,  but  by-and-by  his  voice  sub- 
sided into  inarticulate  murmurs  of  satisfaction. 

Then  Roy  McCulloch  shyly  crossed  over  and  stood  by 
the  window  in  which  Adora  Gracie  was  seated.  He  would 
have  drawn  a  chair  near  her,  but  with  a  gesture  of  care- 
less frankness  the  girl  made  room  for  him  on  the  window 
seat. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "and  what  have  you  come  to  tell  me 
to-night — that  you  and  your  father  have  been  committing 
manslaughter  upon  more  of  his  Majesty's  excisemen? 


124  STRONG  MAC 

We  had  Lieutenant  Trant  here  the  night  before  last,  and 
he  says  he  is  bound  to  have  you  before  long." 

"Let  him  try.  Lieutenant  Trant  is  welcome !"  said  Roy, 
quietly.  "There  will  be  sticks  a-breaking  first — aye,  and 
crowns  too.  They  are  growing  overly  forward,  these  pre- 
ventive fellows.  They  will  get  over  the  fingers  one  of 
these  days !" 

"Roy  McCulloch,"  said  the  girl,  dropping  her  voice, 
"when  will  you  give  up  this  foolishness?  It  will  bring 
you  into  sore  trouble  one  of  these  days." 

"There  is  my  father,"  Roy  answered;  "I  must  stand  by 
him." 

"But  not  in  that,"  said  Adora.  "Surely  there  are  other 
ways.  Why  not  stick  to  the  farm?" 

"Because  a  man  might  just  as  well  hang  as  starve," 
said  Strong  Mac,  gravely.  "Our  two  or  three  poor  hundred 
moorland  acres  could  never  keep  my  father  and  me  in  one 
meal  a  day !  And  a  little  Freetrading  quietly  gone  about 
gets  us  far  less  ill-will  than  over-much  meddling  with  the 
landlords'  deer  and  muir-fowl !" 

"But  I  hear  you  are  in  the  black  books  for  that  as  well," 
retorted  the  girl ;  "there  was  a  man  here  the  other  night 
who  was  as  sore  against  you  for  that  as  was  Trant,  the 
coastguardsman,  for  the  smuggling." 

"The  Laird  of  Lowran?"  queried  Roy  sharply  with  a 
sudden  bend  of  his  eyes  upon  the  girl.  But  Adora  met  him 
with  all  her  usual  careless  frankness  of  gaze. 

"It  is  a  secret  of  the  confessional,"  she  said. 

"You  will  tell  me,"  said  Roy,  "that  is,  if  you  wish  me 
well.  I  will  make  no  ill  use  of  the  information!  You 
can  trust  me  for  that !" 

"Well,  it  was  not  Mr.  Latimer — he  always  speaks  well 
of  you." 

"His  gamekeeper,  then?" 

Adora  nodded  very  slightly. 

"This  is  between  us,"  she  said.  "I  advise  you  to  keep 
well  within  your  own  march-dykes  for  the  next  ten  days. 
The  hunt  is  afoot." 


LOVE  BY  RESOLUTION  125 

Roy  McCulloch  sat  looking  at  the  girl's  busy  fingers 
moving  athwart  her  seam  as  if  the  danger  lay  there. 

"Thank  you,  Dora !"  he  said,  "I  shall  not  forget." 

"Take  good  heed  then,"  she  went  on,  "keep  away  from 
the  Lowran  and  Bennanbrack  forests  and  give  the  enemy 
no  handle  against  you." 

"Is — the  Laird  in  it?"  said  Roy  measuredly. 

"No,  he  knows  nothing." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"If  he  had  been,  I  should  have  known  it,"  said  Adora, 
simply  stating  a  fact. 

"I  would  rather  have  taken  a  year  in  gaol  than  have 
heard  you  say  that,"  said  Roy  McCulloch  in  a  low  voice. 

Adora  laid  her  work  carefully  by  her  side  and  looked 
the  youth  straight  in  the  face.  She  was  angry — far  more 
angry  than  she  had  been  with  Sidney  Latimer. 

"Are  all  men  fools?"  she  said  in  her  clear,  decided 
tones.  "Already  to-night  I  have  had  to  ask  one  of  them 
to  bide  from  my  father's  house !  Must  I  do  the  same  for 
you?  No — "  she  added  after  a  pause,  "we  have  been 
friends  over  long  for  that,  you  and  I,  Roy.  Come,  take 
your  cap.  I  will  walk  to  the  gate  with  you.  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  that  had  better  be  said  out  of  doors.  Bid 
my  father  good-night." 

Roy  rose  obediently.  The  Dominie  extended  a  limp, 
perfunctory  hand.  He  was  still  deep  in  his  Virgil. 

"Good-night" — he  said,  "come  back  soon  and  we  will 
have  another  grand  page.  Listen  to  this.  I  have  just 
come  upon  it." 

"No,  no,  not  to-night,"  put  in  his  daughter  hastily,  "you 
must  not  keep  Roy.  I  am  turning  him  out.  Do  not  move 
till  I  come  back.  I  am  going  to  the  gate  to  see  that  he 
really  closes  it.  It  makes  a  noise  if  it  is  not  properly 
shut." 

They  went  out  together  into  the  cool  summer  gloaming. 
It  was  already  dusk  under  the  schoolhouse  pines.  The 
village  lay  beneath  them,  smokeless  and  clear,  its  white- 
washed houses  and  green-slated  roofs  following  the  irregu- 
lar line  of  the  road  on  either  side.  There  was  a  far 


126  STRONG  MAC 

away  cheerful  crying  of  children  late  at  their  play — 
silence  otherwise  complete  and  cool,  like  the  first  wash  of 
a  still  sea.  "And  now,"  said  Adora  Gracie,  laying  her 
hand  upon  the  young  man's  arm  with  the  easy  accommo- 
dation of  fearless  country  nineteen,  "listen.  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  would  not  trouble  to  explain  to  any  one  else. 
I  would  be  as  ready  to  be  Sidney  Larimer's  friend  as 
yours — that  is,  if  he  were  not  Laird  of  Lowran.  But  I 
will  not  be  talked  about — at  least,  not  if  I  can  help  it.  I 
care  no  more  for  you  than  for  him,  except  that  I  have 
known  you  longer.  He  has  as  little  right  to  find  fault 
with  me  for  being  your  friend  as  you  have  to  quarrel  with 
me  because  he  comes  to  the  house.  And  that  is — under- 
stand clearly,  no  right  at  all !  If  you  are  to  be  my  friend, 
keep  a  guard  on  that  tongue  of  yours,  Roy,  my  lad. 
Whenever  I  am  unable  to  manage  my  own  affairs,  I  will 
tell  you !  And  now,  good-night !  Shut  the  school-gate 
behind  you,  and,  if  you  wish  to  please  me,  keep  off  the 
hill  of  Bennanbrack  for  the  next  fortnight !" 

As  Roy  McCulloch  went  homeward  in  the  grey  purple 
dusk  of  the  moorland  night,  he  had  matter  for  meditation. 
He  was  so  perfectly  familiar  with  the  way  that  as  he  went 
he  could  think  without  interruption.  Every  tuft  of  orange- 
coloured  bent,  every  springy  bush  of  dark  heather  came 
up  under  his  foot  exactly  in  the  place  where  his  foot 
expected  it.  He  avoided  the  dangerous  places,  the  green- 
scummed  "well-eyes,"  the  bottomless  bogs,  the  precipitous 
"screes"  with  a  perfection  of  knowledge  which  equalled 
the  instinct  of  an  animal. 

There  are  occasions  in  the  life  of  every  young  man 
when  he  seems  to  himself  to  see  and  resolve  writh  extraor- 
dinary clearness.  The  world  of  circumstances,  com- 
pelling and  impelling,  has  not  yet  closed  about  him.  In- 
stead of  many  purposes,  he  has  but  one.  And  generally 
that  one  is  connected  with  a  woman.  If  not,  according  to 
his  weird,  he  becomes  a  great  commander  of  armies,  or 
dies  on  the  scaffold. 

Strong  Mac  reflected — and  the  reflection  appeared  to 


'"AND  NOW,'  SAID  ADORA  GRACIE      .       .       .       'LISTEN.'" 


LOVE  BY  RESOLUTION  127 

him  original  and  unprecedented  in  the  history  of  the 
world — that  without  Adora  to  share  it  with  him  life  would 
be  but  a  vain  dream.  At  Strong  Mac's  age  youth  is  prem- 
aturely apt  to  renounce  the  world  because  it  cannot  have 
the  Sole  Adorable  of  the  moment,  but  the  mood  seldom 
lasts  out  the  year. 

But  Roy  had  really  something  to  say  for  himself — or 
so  at  least  he  thought. 

"Who  has  half  so  much  right  to  her  as  I?"  he  medi- 
tated. "Ever  since  I  can  remember  I  have  thought  of 
her  first  in  the  morning,  last  at  night.  At  school  I  did 
not  learn  my  lessons  because  I  wanted  to  learn,  but  to 
please  Adora  Grade!" 

And  these  things  actually  seemed  to  him  as  having 
something  to  do  with  the  case. 

Then  it  struck  Strong  Mac  that  he  lacked  some  of  the 
signs  of  passion  as  depicted  in  the  rare  romances  he  had 
read.  For  there  were  some  old  novels  of  the  eighteenth 
century  at  House  of  Muir  beside  his  father's  fly-books 
and  his  intricate  accountings  with  the  Isle-of-Man  trad- 
ers. But,  then,  Adora  Gracie  was  in  no  way  a  heroine 
according  to  rule.  He  smiled  to  himself  at  the  idea. 

A  young  man  who  ventured  to  address  her  in  the  lan- 
guage of  foolish  compliment  might,  according  to  his 
status  and  Adora's  humour,  receive  a  stinging  reproof  or  a 
box  on  the  ear,  but  love — Roy  smiled  again. 

The  girls  in  the  books  blushed,  trembled,  quavered. 
They  could  not  say  "Boo"  to  a  goose,  lest  the  monosylla- 
ble should  be  thought  unmaidenly.  But  Adora  Gracie 
was  in  nowise  thus  sicklied  over  with  sentiment.  Clear- 
eyed,  plain  of  speech,  definite  in  action,  chalk  was  not  more 
easily  distinguishable  from  cheese  than  Adora  Gracie 
from  all  other  daughters  of  man.  Witness — Roy  McCul- 
loch. 

"What,  then,  can  I  do  to  please  Adora  Gracie?" 

That  was  the  question  he  proposed  to  himself  as  he 
went  homeward  over  the  moor.  He  had  offended  her 
that  night,  he  knew,  but  the  like  should  not  occur  again. 


128  STRONG  MAC 

In  the  future  he  would  leave  his  own  feelings  altogether 
out  of  account.  He  would  study  solely  how  to  deserve 
her  friendship. 

True,  he  excelled  in  all  the  sports  of  the  countryside. 
He  was  so  incontestably  first  at  quoits,  at  throwing  the 
hammer,  at  wrestling,  leaping  and  running,  that  no  one 
could  be  found  to  enter  the  lists  against  him.  Well,  all 
that  must  have  an  end.  Adora  scorned  mere  triumphs 
of  bodily  strength  and  skill.  Roy  was  sure  she  did.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  loved  books.  He  was  not  clever,  he 
said  to  himself,  but  he  would  learn.  His  brother  James, 
in  Drumfern,  would  send  him  as  many  books  as  he  could 
induce  his  father  to  buy.  These  he  would  read  and  dis- 
cuss with  Adora  Gracie.  Mind  would  first  speak  to 
mind,  and  afterwards  (he  knew  no  better)  heart  would 
respond  to  heart. 

In  the  second  place  and  furthermore,  he  would  watch 
for  opportunities  of  being  useful  to  her. 

Roy  was  compelled  to  think  this  second  point  over  care- 
fully. Adora  was  such  a  difficult  person  to  help — not  at 
all  like  the  girls  of  the  story  books.  These  were  always 
so  conveniently  ready  to  faint  at  the  sight  of  a  cow  in  a 
lane  or  a  bull  in  a  pasture.  Adora  would  have  lifted  the 
nearest  cudgel  or  snatched  up  a  stone  from  the  dyke. 
Still  more  probably,  she  would  simply  have  flapped  her 
white  apron  and  said,  "Shoo!"  She  never  needed  to  be 
helped  over  stiles  or  delivered  from  perilous  straits. 
Crags  and  morasses  had  been  her  playgrounds,  and  she 
could  spring  from  tuft  to  tuft  across  the  most  treacher- 
ous "quakkin'-qua"  as  well  as  Strong  Mac  himself.  It 
was  certainly  discouraging. 

Still  he  had  a  glimpse  of  one  or  two  things — possibili- 
ties far  off  and  vague  indeed,  yet  not  quite  hopeless. 

For  one  thing,  the  Dominie's  demon  was  not  dead.  At 
any  moment  it  might  awake  from  slumber.  Well,  Donald 
Gracie  liked  him.  He  was  sure  of  that.  He  would  go 
and  talk  to  his  old  schoolmaster  in  the  evenings.  They 
would  read  Latin  together  and — he  would  see  Adora. 


LOVE  BY  RESOLUTION  129 

Then  he  remembered  that  among  the  pines  at  the  back 
of  the  schoolhouse,  in  a  very  approachable  situation  for 
a  benevolent  brownie,  stood  the  Dominie's  little  official 
woodpile  and  peatstack.  The  bairns  brought  the  peats 
as  part  payment  of  their  fees.  Roy  promised  himself 
that  Adora  should  find  these,  like  the  widow's  cruise, 
continually  plenished  and  inexhaustible.  But  he  did  not 
think  what  he  would  say  when  a  certain  very  clear-headed 
person  asked  him  to  explain  the  belated  miracle. 

One  other  last  resolution,  for  Roy  was  nearing  home. 

As  to  what  she  had  asked  of  him  that  night,  he  would 
do  her  wish  to  the  letter.  So  far  as  he  could  he  would 
stop  the  smuggling,  and  for  a  time  confine  himself  to  the 
work  of  the  little  croft.  It  was  a  sacrifice,  certainly,  for 
in  his  heart  the  young  man  did  not  believe  that  any  one 
could  possibly  entrap  him  or  do  him  serious  injury. 
He  had  that  confidence  in  himself  which  a  man  has  who 
has  never  yet  felt  himself  helpless  in  the  grip  of  fate. 

Reasoning  thus  on  what  is  entirely  outside  of  reason, 
Roy  reached  these  remarkable  conclusions : 

Resolved,  That  the  way  to  produce  love  in  a  woman's 
heart  is  to  avoid  all  mention  of  the  subject  when  talking 
to  her,  to  compass  her  about  with  unseen  anonymous 
services,  and,  above  all — to  cultivate  the  mind! 

ROY  McCuLLOCH. 

It  was  a  remarkable  advance.  Love,  thus  arranged  for, 
would  be  no  longer  blind.  He  would  become  a  reason- 
able, cultivated,  intelligible  divinity,  who  with  other 
childish  things  had  laid  aside  his  bow,  his  quiver,  and  his 
habit  of  playfully  transfixing  people's  hearts  with  toy  ar- 
rows. But  Strong  Mac,  thus  making  a  wager  with  Fate, 
did  not  know  that  if  this  were  indeed  the  case,  the  whole 
world  (including  Adora  Gracie)  would  at  once  go  into 
mourning  for  their  old,  impish,  tricksy,  improvident, 
spiteful,  blissfully  teasing  boy-god,  the  son  of  Venus, 
who,  dying  a  thousand  deaths,  reborn  a  thousand  times, 
never  once  grows  old  or  abdicates  his  right  to  reign. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    BATTLE    ENGAGES. 

BUT  the  tale  of  the  suitors  of  Penelope  is  far  from 
ended. 

Not  only  did  Jock  Fairies  of  the  Holm  attend  at  the 
schoolhouse  every  Saturday  night  for  the  pleasure  of  sit- 
ting on  the  extremest  edge  of  a  chair  and  looking  at  the 
fireplace,  but  as  he  went  out  at  the  gate  he  put  a  certain 
question  in  form  to  his  young  hostess.  For  Adora  gen- 
erally accompanied  him  to  point  out  the  way  ever  since 
the  night  when,  mistaking  the  back  door  for  the  front, 
he  had  walked  over  the  block  upon  which  the  kindling- 
wood  was  chopped  and  barely  escaped  braining  himself 
on  the  broadaxe. 

Jock  Fairies  the  young  man  was  very  much  what  might 
have  been  expected  from  Jock  Fairies  the  boy  after  three 
years'  growth.  That  is,  he  was  big,  kindly,  a  little  stupid, 
easily  led  for  good  or  ill,  and — and  as  of  old,  completely 
subordinate  to  the  stronger  nature  in  presence  of  which 
he  found  himself,  whether  that  happened  to  be  Adora 
Gracie,  Strong  Mac,  or — Sandy  Ewan. 

Ah,  Sandy  Ewan — that  was  the  name  of  the  last  and 
most  dangerous  of  Adora's  suitors.  Entering  into  his 
heritage  upon  the  death  of  his  father  at  the  age  when  most 
youths  are  yet  wholly  in  leading-strings,  Alexander 
Ewan's  hard,  vehement  and  passionate  nature,  naturally 
arrogant  and  impatient  of  obstacles,  had  so  carried  him 
away  that  his  wild  exploits,  his  amorous  adventures,  his 
reputed  dealing  with  the  Kirk  Session  of  his  own  parish 
had  made  his  name  a  byword  over  half  Galloway.  And 


THE  BATTLE  ENGAGES  131 

this  feeling  was  deepened  by  a  certain  dark  vein  of  cruelty 
of  which  strange  tales  came  to  be  whispered. 

Young  Ewan's  father  had  died  rich — that  is,  for  the 
time  and  place.  And  so  at  twenty-one,  those  were  his  own 
acres  that  Sandy  Ewan  strode  out  upon.  His  own  sheep 
trampled  the  many  paths  of  his  muirs.  His  own  cattle 
studded  a  thousand  hillsides,  and  above  all,  they  were  his 
own  stallions,  that  snorted  and  whinnied  and  pranced 
along  the  roads  of  Galloway  and  the  Upper  Ward.  For 
with  all  his  forceful  brutality,  Sandy  Ewan  carried  on  his 
shoulders  no  empty  head.  Lavishly  generous  where  his 
pleasures  or  desires  were  concerned,  in  matters  of  business 
he  proved  to  the  full  as  hard-headed  as  his  father.  He 
had  early  seen  the  riches  which  would  accrue  to  him 
who  should  improve  the  poor-blooded,  inbred,  "fushion- 
less"  work-horses  of  the  south  of  Scotland.  And  to  this 
end  he  imported  Flanders  mares  and  English  stallions, 
and  so  in  a  brief  space  blossomed  out  as  the  dictator  of 
market-places  and  a  chief  arbiter  of  horse-shows. 

On  a  keen,  snell-blowing  February  morning  Sandy 
Ewan,  Laird  of  the  Boreland  of  Kirkanders,  as  well  as  of 
several  surrounding  farms,  strode  out  across  the  short, 
spongy  turf  of  the  "ley"  fields  near  the  House  of  Bore- 
land  to  visit  his  sheep.  He  had  shepherds  whose  duty 
it  was  to  do  this  for  him,  but  Sandy  Ewan  believed  in 
personal  supervision ;  and  besides,  he  had  rested  ill  in  his 
bed  that  night. 

His  strong,  bleak,  unkindly  horse  face  had  the  protrud- 
ing underlip  more  than  usually  thrust  out,  and  was  full 
of  the  dour  angers  of  the  man  seldom  thwarted.  His 
dull  eyes  were  injected,  but  though  it  was  above  all  things 
a  time  of  hard  drinking,  on  this  occasion  Sandy  Ewan 
had  not  tarried  long  at  the  wine  cup.  He  dug  his  iron- 
shod  heel  deep  into  the  sod  as  he  walked.  Malice  fierce 
and  bitter  had  him  by  the  throat.  He  muttered  to  him- 
self as  he  went. 

"She  denies  me,  and  I  know  the  cause.  The  reason, 
indeed,  is  plain.  It  is  the  poacher's  son — Roy  McCul- 


132  STRONG  MAC 

loch,  who  smuggles  his  drink  and  lives  on  the  deer  killed 
on  other  folks'  lands!  And  for  such  a  beggar  and  a 
thief  she  gives  me  the  back  of  her  hand.  I  did  not  mean 
to — no,  what  is  she  better  than  the  others  ?  But  her  light 
scorns  drove  me  as  with  a  whip.  And  I  offered  her  all 
this—" 

He  looked  behind  him  at  the  spick-and-span  new  man- 
sion house  of  Boreland,  which  it  had  been  the  last  act  of 
his  father's  life  to  build,  at  the  far-extending  rectangle  of 
barns  and  byres,  his  own  addition,  at  the  scarcely  finished 
stables  and  at  the  parks  where  his  breeding  stud  was 
exercising. 

With  a  gesture  indicating  the  hopelessness  of  under- 
standing any  woman  born  of  woman,  he  repeated  incred- 
ulously, "She  refused  all  this — the  first  living  woman  that 
ever  had  the  chance  of  it !" 

Then  he  glanced  down  his  full  height  of  six  foot  and 
two  inches,  took  in  his  well-legginged  calves,  his  well-shod 
feet,  stroked  his  long,  clean-shaven  upper  lip,  and  added 
in  a  yet  more  disgusted  tone,  "And  she  refused  ME  I" 

It  was  inconceivable,  knowing  what  he  knew  of  women. 
Muckle  Sandy  smiled  a  little  self-satisfied  smile  as  he 
thought  of  his  record. 

"Ah,"  he  murmured,  nodding  his  head,  "some  hae  meat 
an'  canna  eat,  an'  some  wad  eat  that  want  it!  Bonny 
lady  ower  yonder,  have  a  care — ye  will  maybe  see  your 
pride  get  an  unco  downcome.  And  as  for  your  poacher's 
son—" 

As  he  thought  of  Roy  McCulloch  words  failed  him,  and 
he  fell  back  on  the  brute  silence  of  sullen  wrath.  He 
frowned  so  that  the  heavy,  hairless  folds  of  skin  which 
represented  eyebrows  accentuated  the  cruelty  of  his  small, 
stubborn  eyes.  Then  his  mind  reverted  to  his  repulse 
of  the  previous  night. 

"Mony  is  the  lass,"  he  said  aloud  in  the  country  speech 
which  at  that  time  all  used  upon  need,  "that  wad  hae  been 
weel  content  wi'  the  man  withoot  the  doonsittin'.  Aye, 
Elspeth  Gibb  up  at  the  Cowanriggs  an'  Bonny  Betty  o' 


THE  BATTLE  ENGAGES  133 

the  Ferry,  to  gang  nae  farther!  I  hae  seen  them  baith 
greetin' — and  for  what?  Juist  fleechin'  and  prayin'  o'er 
me  that  I  wadna  leave  them  a'  thegither!  But  what  yin 
o'  them  a'  ever  had  the  chance  to  be  mistress  o'  the  Bore- 
land  o'  Kirkanders — a  laird's  wife  sittin'  by  my  side  in 
the  kirk,  and  ridin'  to  the  market  on  her  ain  Kelso  naigie  ? 
But  I'll  wager  I'll  be  evens  wi'  the  besom  some  day  yet,  or 
my  name  is  no'  Sandy  Ewan !" 

From  this  it  will  be  easily  understood  that  it  was  no 
good  day  for  Sandy  Ewan  and  Roy  McCulloch  to  en- 
counter each  the  other.  Yet  it  was  their  fate  to  meet.  It 
came  to  pass  at  the  smithy  of  Ebie  Cargen,  the  village 
antiquary  and  political  dictator  of  the  parish.  Ebie  could 
tell  every  old  wife's  tale  that  had  been  handed  down  con- 
cerning house,  tree,  cave  or  lonely  mountain.  He  knew 
on  what  night  the  mystic  Grey  Lady  of  Glenlee  perambu- 
lated the  avenue.  He  knew  the  dread  secret  she  was 
seeking  vainly  to  communicate.  On  crowded  evenings, 
when  he  had  cooled  his  thirst  a  little  more  frequently 
than  usual,  the  smith  would  relate  the  famous  tale  of  his 
meeting  with  the  spectre  in  the  Holm  wood — and  how 
her  hand  when  it  touched  his  was  "as  bonny  an'  weel- 
roonded  as  that  o'  Charlotte  Webster  hersel' !" 

"Quaite — quaite,  smith,"  muttered  Robin  Sheil  of  the 
Newlands  on  this  occasion.  "Here's  Strong  Mac  doon 
frae  the  muirs  wi'  a  job  for  ye!  An'  ye  had  better  no* 
even  Chairlie  Webster  wi'  the  Dominie's  lass  in  his 
hearin' !" 

And,  indeed,  as  he  spoke  Strong  Mac  appeared  at  the 
turn  of  the  road  by  the  sawmill,  leading  the  well-known 
old  white  pony.  He  walked  silently  and  very  lightly  upon 
his  feet,  as  is  the  wont  of  strong  men.  The  assembled 
company  in  the  "smiddy"  (some  six  or  eight  of  the  choic- 
est spirits  in  the  village)  regarded  the  young  smuggler 
and  stalker  of  other  folks'  deer  with  more  than  the  usual 
admiration  due  to  successful  law-breakers. 

"He's  a  bauld,  upstandin'  lad,  and  a  credit  to  the  pair- 
ish,"  said  Paton  of  Egarton,  sententiously. 


134  STRONG  MAC 

"That's  mair  nor  the  lairds  wad  allow,  I'm  thinkin'!" 
retorted  the  smith,  drily. 

The  habitual  frequenters  of  the  smithy  looked  towards 
the  smith  to  see  if  he  had  a  reason  personal  to  Strong 
Mac  for  his  unusual  consideration  for  those  in  high  places. 
But  the  man  of  iron  only  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow, 
and  threw  the  drops  of  professional  sweat  from  him  with 
a  flip  of  the  fingers.  Then  he  wiped  his  damp  hand 
on  his  leathern  apron  and  greeted  Roy  pleasantly 
enough. 

"Aye,  lad,  and  hoo's  a'  wi'  ye  up  at  the  Hoose  o' 
Muir?" 

Roy  responded  with  cordiality,  nodded  about  the 
smithy,  and  whistling  the  while,  proceeded  to  fasten  his 
white  pony  to  a  ring  in  the  shoeing-shed  attached  to  the 
smithy. 

Then  he  sat  down  on  a  convenient  ledge  at  some  dis- 
tance behind  the  fire,  in  a  place  where  the  wrinkled  mass 
of  the  bellows,  dimly  seen  suspended  above  the  red 
glow,  loomed  like  a  huge  animal  a-swing  in  some  ma- 
gician's chamber.  In  the  parliament  of  "lallan,"  plough- 
men waiting  for  their  "culters"  to  be  set,  their  "swingle- 
trees"  to  be  "clepped"  or  "banded,"  the  young  hillman 
sat  modestly  apart  like  a  stranger.  He  was,  indeed, 
thinking  of  Adora  Gracie  and  the  partial  embargo  she 
had  laid  upon  him.  Still  she  was  without  doubt  inter- 
ested in  him,  or  she  would  never  have  been  so  anxious  for 
his  safety.  So  much  at  least  was  good. 

Roy  was  aroused  from  his  reverie  by  the  sound  of  an 
entrance  into  the  little  courtyard  of  the  smithy.  A  loud 
voice  hailed  the  smith  by  name,  and  Ebie  Cargen  went 
to  the  door  to  answer. 

It  was  dark  by  this  time,  and  the  smith,  in  a  voice  as 
rough  and  loud,  demanded  who  called  his  name. 

"Come  out  here,  smith !"  cried  the  voice  again. 

"Come  ye  ben  here  gin  ye  want  ocht  wi'  Ebie  Cargen !" 
said  the  smith,  and  forthwith  betook  him  back  to  his 
anvil. 


THE  BATTLE  ENGAGES  135 

"Ebie,"  whispered  one  of  the  village  hangers-on,  "do 
as  he  bids  ye.  It's  the  young  laird  frae  Kirkanders !" 

"Guid  be  wi'  us,  and  wha  micht  he  be?" 

"Maister  Ewan — ye  surely  ken — young  Maister  Alex- 
ander o'  the  Boreland,"  said  the  sycophant,  hoping  that 
the  person  named  might  hear. 

"D'ye  mean  Muckle  Sandy — Sly  Tod  Ewan's  lang 
loon?"  cried  the  smith  in  a  loud  voice.  "If  he  wants  Ebie 
Cargen,  he  can  come  and  seek  him.  He  kens  the  smiddy 
door!" 

It  was  with  a  curious  undercurrent  of  silent  dislike, 
'mingled  with  the  inevitable  half-respect,  half- fear  in- 
spired by  a  man  with  the  reputation  for  money  or  "re- 
gairdlessness,"  that  the  little  "smiddy  parliament"  moved 
to  receive  Sandy  Ewan.  Every  one  present,  with  two 
exceptions,  made  some  slight  alteration  of  position,  indi- 
cating uneasiness  or  a  desire  to  get  away  unobserved. 
The  two  exceptions  were  the  smith  at  his  forge  and 
Strong  Mac  seated  deep  in  the  dusk,  hidden  or  almost 
hidden  from  any  incomer  by  the  red  glow  of  the  hearth 
fire  and  the  black  mass  of  the  bellows. 

With  his  hand  masterfully  upon  the  pole,  Ebie  the 
smith  sent  forth  at  times  a  gentle  moaning  and  anon 
a  sonorous  roar,  according  to  the  exigencies  of  Vulcan 
or  the  condition,  disturbed  or  peaceful,  of  the  smithy  par- 
liament. 

"Well,  lads,"  cried  Sandy  Ewan,  with  a  certain  conde- 
scension in  his  voice  befitting  his  new  condition  of  laird 
(instantly  detected  and  resented  by  every  man  within 
hearing),  "hoo  is  a'  wi'  ye  the  nicht?  A  full  meetin',  I 
see,  eh,  lads  ?  The  plough  irons  have  surely  been  knockin' 
their  brains  oot  against  a  heap  o'  stanes  this  day !" 

No  man  answered,  because  no  man  had  been  directly 
addressed.  There  was  an  uneasy,  fretting  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  leathery  wheeze  of  the  bellows  and  the 
smith's  "Noo,  Jock!"  as  he  signalled  his  assistant  and 
striker. 

Then,  comfortable  to  all,  there  arose  the  merry  alternate 


136  STRONG  MAC 

dong-ding,  dong-a-ding  of  the  forehammer  and  its  mate. 
A  score  of  eyes  watched  the  sparks  fly,  first  white,  anon 
red.  Then  the  ruddy  sunset  colour  died  out  of  the  smitten 
iron ;  a  dullish  purple  invaded  it  till  the  mass  grew  too  cold 
to  be  handled,  when  with  an  "OufT !"  of  satisfaction  the 
smith  replunged  the  metal  into  the  fire,  bent  upon  the 
handle,  and  with  the  first  hissing  breath  of  the  bellows 
turned  to  the  newcomer  with  a  grim  humour  on  his  face, 
dried  by  thirty  years  of  fire-stoking  and  bellows-blowing. 

"And  what  micht  be  your  Honour's  will  wi'  Ebie  Car- 
gen  the  nicht  ?"  he  said. 

The  irony  of  the  title  was  lost  on  Sandy  Ewan,  who* 
at  the  time  was  so  conscious  of  his  own  dignity  as  a  laird 
and  officer  of  militia  that  if  one  had  saluted  him  as  "Gen- 
eral" or  "My  Lord"  he  might  have  been  a  little  surprised, 
but  assuredly  he  would  never  have  thought  of  correcting 
him. 

Now  Sandy  Ewan  desired  to  be  popular,  and  did  his 
best  to  be  friendly  and  hearty,  thereby  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence depressing  the  spirits  of  his  listeners  to  the  low- 
est pitch.  Only  a  solitary  voice  answered  his  sallies,  that 
of  the  sycophant  who  had  urged  the  smith  to  go  out  to 
meet  him.  This  was  one  Jeems  Easton  by  name,  a  long- 
haired, sleek-faced  man,  who  was  of  no  consideration  in 
Lowran  because  he  was  suspected  of  buying  oil  for  his 
hair  instead  of  using  the  domestic  candle  for  the  pur- 
poses of  the  Sunday  toilet.  Jeems  obsequiously  nodded 
his  sleek  head  and  sedulously  responded  in  the  best  Eng- 
lish fashion,  judged  proper  in  speaking  to  a  man  of  note. 

"Aye,  Laird,  I  was  juist  thinkin' — "  he  had  begun, 
when  the  smith  imperiously  cut  him  short. 

"If  I  mistak'  not,  Maister  Ewan  hasna  yet  informed  us 
in  what  way  I  can  be  o'  service  to  him !" 

For  the  smith,  when  very  angry  or  very  contemptuous, 
could  be  elaborately  polite.  In  the  smithy  it  was  counted 
one  of  the  surest  of  danger  signals. 

Sandy  Ewan,  however,  never  doubting  the  cordiality  of 
his  reception,  stamped  his  way  up  to  the  hearth,  pulling 


THE  BATTLE  ENGAGES  137 

off  his  great  riding-gloves  as  he  went  and  holding  up  his 
fingers  to  the  blaze. 

"There  are  some  padlock  chains  badly  wanted  up  at  the 
Nether  Airie,"  he  said  at  last.  "We  have  been  losing 
overly  many  sheep  to  please  my  grieve,  There  are  some 
folks  up  near  the  headend  o'  Lowran  parish  that  hae  a 
difficulty  in  kennin'  their  ain  sheep  frae  ither  folk's!" 

This  pointed  straight  at  the  McCullochs  of  House  of 
Muir,  whose  ground  "marched"  with  that  of  the  Nether 
Airie,  a  large  "led"  farm  which,  among  his  other  ventures, 
Sandy  Ewan  had  recently  leased  from  the  Laird  of  Ben- 
nanbrack.  Sandy  Ewan  expected  a  laugh,  or  at  least  a 
chuckle  of  appreciation,  but  on  this  occasion  none  came, 
even  from  sycophant  Easton.  An  unquiet  silence 
oppressed  the  smiddy,  whispers  and  nudgings  passed  here 
and  there,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  smith  grunted  audibly 
and  blew  up  the  fire  with  more  than  his  usual 
vehemence. 

Strong  Mac  sat  motionless,  his  eyes  seemingly  intent 
on  a  dull  ruddy  patch  on  the  black  floor  of  trodden  forge- 
ashes,  on  which  the  red  snout  of  a  ploughshare  was  slowly 
cooling.  No  one  had  courage  to  inform  Sandy  Ewan 
of  his  presence. 

"Jock,"  said  the  smith,  "will  ye  attend  to  your  business. 
There's  a  score  o'  padlock-cheens  ahint  the  dass  (dais), 
that  were  ordered  when  the  lairds  were  set  on  stoppin'  the 
road  to  the  Hoose  o'  Muir!  No  yin  o'  them  was  ever 
needed.  They  micht  serve  Maister  Ewan  for  his  Nether 
Airie  yetts." 

Jeems  Easton  the  Sycophant  interposed  to  break  the 
force  of  the  smith's  irony. 

"Lord — Lord,"  he  cried,  "an'  ye  hae  been  losin'  your 
sheep! — the  country's  surely  in  an  awesome  state  when 
vaigabonds  are  allowed  to  gang  aboot  the  country  robbin' 
honest  folk !" 

"To  my  thinkin'  the  worst  ill-doers  are  not  those  who 
gang  the  country,  Easton,  but  those  that  are  permitted 
to  stop  in  it.  There's  them  no  that  far  away,  that  will 


138  STRONG  MAC 

maybes  swing  in  a  lang  tow  the  next  time  the  Red  Judges 
come  to  Dumfries!" 

The  sycophant,  conscious  of  the  lazy  figure  sitting  so 
darkly  behind  the  bellows-sweep,  tried  to  convey  a  warn- 
ing to  his  principal. 

"There's  them  that  it's  maybe  no  canny  to  name, 
Laird  Boreland,"  he  said,  striving  by  turn  of  head  and 
inclination  of  elbow  to  draw  attention  to  the  locality  of  the 
danger. 

But  Sandy  Ewan,  conscious  of  his  strength  and  proud 
of  his  position,  a  little  elevated  too  by  the  refreshments 
he  had  partaken  of  at  the  various  public  houses  on  his 
way,  raised  his  voice,  and  would  have  none  of  his  warn- 
ings or  reproofs. 

"Name,"  he  cried,  "name!  What  care  I  for  the 
names  o'  a'  the  blackguards  in  Scotland?  I  come  here 
direct  from  the  Sheriff  at  St.  Cuthbertstown  and  I  can  tell 
ye  that  the  names  of  the  sheep-stealers  will  ring  in  a  day 
or  twa  through  a*  Gallaway!  The  fiscal  himsel'  is  hard 
on  their  tail,  and  listen  to  this,  lads,  there's  a  gye  gleg 
lad  that  will  soon  find  something  else  to  do  wi'  his  fore- 
nichts  than  to  make  a  fool  o'  the  light-headed  dochter 
o'  a  drucken  schoolmaster  I" 

There  was  a  gasp  of  horror-stricken  awe  throughout 
the  smithy.  A  short  pregnant  silence,  then  out  of  the 
gloom  Strong  Mac  detached  himself.  Marching  straight 
up  to  Sandy  Ewan,  he  stood  the  space  of  two  breaths 
looking  into  his  eyes  to  give  him  time  to  defend  himself. 
Then  with  the  single  word  "Liar" !  at  one  blow  he  sent 
the  evil  speaker  flying  through  the  open  door  of  the  smithy 
into  the  darkness  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  SUB-SOIL  OF  CRIME. 

THUS  in  Lowran  was  war  declared — swift,  sudden,  to 
the  death.  On  Strong  Mac's  side  there  was  not  only 
natural  resentment  for  false  accusations,  not  only  the 
anger  because  of  the  woman  (like  to  which  there  is  none 
other  on  the  earth),  but  also  a  slow  accumulation  of  mis- 
likings  and  grievances,  the  natural  animosity  of  years, 
begun  in  schooldays,  continued  in  youth,  and  now  to  be 
fought  to  a  finish  with  all  the  strength  of  manhood. 

On  Sandy  Ewan's  part  jealousy  and  rivalry  had  grown 
to  acute  hatred.  He  was  of  those  who  cannot  bear  to 
lose.  Strong  Mac  had  thrashed  him  at  school.  Ewan 
had  carried  through  life  the  consciousness  that  but  for 
this  boy  he  might  have  been  without  a  rival.  The  expul- 
sion from  the  schoolhouse,  the  ploughing-match,  the  ill- 
divided  favours  of  Adora  Gracie,  above  all  a  deep,  dour, 
dogged  determination  to  stamp  out  an  adversary,  so  that 
he  might  never  again  lift  up  his  head,  formed  in  Sandy 
Ewan's  bosom  the  very  soil  from  which  great  crimes 
spring  full  grown  in  a  night. 

Yes,  it  was  to  be  fought  to  a  finish.  Both  of  the  young 
men  recognised  that.  And  they  knew  in  their  hearts  (or 
thought  they  knew)  that  whatever  the  ostensible  cause 
of  their  quarrel,  the  victor's  prize  was  to  be  Adora  Gracie. 
Still  it  might  have  been  as  well  to  consult  the  lady,  who 
in  any  case  was  exceedingly  likely  to  have  a  mind  of 
her  own  on  the  matter. 

After  the  scene  of  the  Lowran  smiddy,  Sandy  Ewan 


i4o  STRONG  MAC 

was  assisted,  bruised  of  countenance  and  much  confused 
in  understanding,  upon  his  beast,  and  rode  home,  com- 
passed by  the  ill-rewarded  attentions  of  the  sycophant,  at 
whom  he  swore  continuously. 

As  he  went  his  hatred  returned  doubly  upon  him.  A 
sense  of  disgrace  gnawed  at  his  heart,  and  not  all  the  con- 
soling reflections  of  Jeems  Easton,  timidly  faithful,  could 
draw  a  word  of  acknowledgment  from  him.  He  would 
be  revenged  on  his  adversary  and  that  speedily.  Fierce 
thoughts  flitted  through  his  mind.  Oh,  if  he  only  had 
him  down  and  helpless — what  pleasure  there  would  be 
in  trampling  out  his  life  with  his  boot  heels !  There  were, 
even  in  Scotland  and  in  the  year  of  grace  1812,  ruffians 
to  be  hired,  escapes  from  the  gaols,  deserters  from  the 
army.  Crob  McRobb — the  outcast,  rose  up  before  him. 
He  would  help  him,  the  dark  man  with  the  face  like  a 
weasel,  who  for  a  guinea  would — so  at  least  they  said — 
and  Sandy  Ewan  had  many  guineas. 

Then  through  the  blind  savagery  which  pain  and  shame 
bring  to  the  surface  in  better  men  than  Muckle  Sandy, 
the  dour  staunch  brain  of  his  race  began  to  work.  After 
all,  were  there  not  other  and  safer  ways?  To  stamp  a 
man's  life  out  may  upon  occasion  entail  unpleasant  con- 
sequences. There  was  the  unfinished  business  of  the 
sheep-stealing.  He  regretted  that  he  had  boasted  of  it. 
The  enemy  would  now  be  on  his  guard.  But  again  there 
was  the  weasel-faced  man,  a  dark,  lithe,  light-running, 
elusive,  underground  weasel  who  would  be  at  his  disposi- 
tion, for  a  price.  Crob  McRobb  was  his  man. 

So  by  the  time  that  Sandy  Ewan  had  reached  the  Bore- 
land  of  Kirkanders  a  plan  had  begun  to  take  shape  in  his 
mind.  After  all,  he  would  make  good  his  boast.  If  Roy 
McCulloch  and  his  father  did  not  hang  by  the  neck  till 
they  were  dead  (as  he  hoped),  at  least  he  would  see  to 
it  that  they  were  compelled  to  quit  the  country  for  good 
and  all. 

With  these  thoughts  in  his  head,  Sandy  Ewan  brewed 
himself  a  bumper  of  brandy  and  water  hot  and  strong. 


THE  SUB-SOIL  OF  CRIME  141 

Then  he  tumbled  into  bed,  resolved  to  send  a  message 
to  the  Man  of  the  Weasel  Face  in  the  morning.  But  on 
waking,  the  extra  brandy  he  had  swallowed,  together 
with  the  consequences  of  Strong  Mac's  blow,  had  made 
him  unpresentable.  A  violent  headache,  and  nausea 
mingled  of  bitter  shame  and  physical  pain,  kept  his 
thoughts  at  home,  and  it  was  evening  before  he  had 
sufficiently  recovered  to  begin  definitely  to  plan  his 
revenge. 

Then  he  sent  for  Crob  McRobb.  It  was  his  foreman, 
Grieve  Cormack,  who  carried  the  message,  carried  it,  too, 
with  many  inward  questionings  as  to  what  his  master 
could  have  to  say  to  such  a  world's  reprobate  as  Crob. 
He  wished  it  had  been  written  in  a  letter.  He  would 
willingly  have  read  it  for  illiterate  Crob. 

"Some  deevilry  aboot  a  woman,  I'll  wager!"  was  his 
guess,  with,  after  all,  a  far-away  Tightness  about  it.  For 
Adora  Gracie  was  at  least  one  of  the  causes  of  Muckle 
Sandy's  present  evil  case. 

Meantime  in  a  little  den  off  the  business  room  of  the 
new  house  of  Boreland  Sandy  Ewan  lay  couched,  grum- 
bling low  to  himself  in  the  semi-dark — like  a  tiger  with 
a  broken  head,  ill  to  approach,  worse  to  disobey. 

When  the  silent-footed  old  woman  with  the  face  like 
oiled  ivory,,  who  had  been  his  nurse  in  childhood,  brought 
him  some  light  refreshment,  she  did  so  quite  prepared 
to  have  it  thrown  at  her  head,  plate  and  all.  Devilled 
bones  were  what  Sandy's  stomach  craved  after.  These 
and  vengeance — also  bedevilled  by  all  the  brood  of  the  pit. 

Thus  had  the  man  lain  for  nearly  twenty-four  hours, 
the  sickness  of  physical  pain  slowly  submerging  itself 
beneath  the  rising  tide  of  hatred  and  resolve.  From  where 
he  lay  he  could  in  his  turnings  see  into  the  wide  barely 
furnished  room  which  he  called  his  library.  The  back  of 
a  book  on  the  Criminal  Law  of  Scotland,  which,  very 
superfluously,  he  had  bought  upon  his  elevation  to  the 
bench  of  justices  of  the  peace  for  the  county,  looked  at 
him  with  a  warning  air.  It  seemed  to  swing  suggestively 


142  STRONG  MAC 

to  and  fro  upon  the  table  when  he  thought  of  the  pleasure 
of  slaying  his  enemy  slowly.  They  said  that  sometimes 
it  took  half  an  hour  for  a  man  to  die  on  the  gallows.  That 
was  a  long  time,  and  with  a  curse  Sandy  Ewan  turned 
over  that  he  might  not  see  the  big  three  volumes  of 
Stairs'  Institutes  which  flanked  the  official  inkstand. 

It  was  in  the  deep  heart  of  the  night  when  Crob  Mc- 
Robb  arrived  at  the  Boreland.  He  had  been  hard  to  find, 
being,  as  usual,  absent  on  business  of  his  own.  But  his 
son  Daid  had  succeeded  after  Grieve  Cormack  had  sig- 
nally failed.  The  Weasel-faced  Man  entered  the  great 
house  warily,  treading  lightly,  as  if  he  suspected  traps 
on  the  floor,  perhaps  lurking  open-jawed  under  the  soft 
unaccustomed  carpets,  or,  as  it  might  be,  a  spring  gun 
looking  out  at  him  from  under  the  hanging  corners  of  a 
table-cover. 

But  when  Crob  stepped  into  the  wide  bare  spaces  of 
the  "library"  and  heard  Muckle  Sandy  swear  at  him,  he 
became  at  once  much  more  at  ease.  That  at  least  was 
something  he  understood  and  had  been  prepared  for.  It 
assured  him  of  a  welcome.  Crob  had  set  his  feet  on 
carpets  before,  and  knew  the  way  up  some  great  folks' 
staircases  as  well  as  themselves,  but  that  was  in  the 
silence  and  blackness  of  night,  when  no  friendly  oaths 
cheered  his  larcenous  way. 

At  the  door  he  inquired  in  a  husky  voice  after  the 
patient's  health,  and  in  reply  received  the  information 
that  it  was  evil  to  a  degree  inexpressible  on  any  printed 
page,  furthermore  that  it  was  nothing  the  better  for  see- 
ing him,  and  that  in  especial  Grieve  Cormack  was  a  use- 
less good-for-nothing  numbskull,  of  no  character  and 
worse  than  no  parentage — inasmuch  as  he  had  been  so 
long  in  doing  his  bidding.  And  what  did  he,  Crob,  mean 
by  coming  to  his  house  when  all  decent  folk  were  in  their 
beds? 

"Doubtless  that  is  the  reason  Crob  isna  in  his!" 
commented  the  Grieve,  humorously. 

Whereupon  his  amiable  master  cursed  him  anew,  but 


THE  SUB-SOIL  OF  CRIME  143 

Crob,  who  understood  the  injury  only  vaguely,  bore  no 
malice. 

"And  get  out  of  my  sight/'  cried  the  patient,  ungrate- 
fully to  his  Grieve,  "Leave  the  lamp  burnin'  in  the  library, 
and  tell  that  auld  besom  Jess  Laybroad  that  if  she  dares 
so  much  as  to  set  her  head  within  the  door — I'll  gie  her  an 
ounce  o'  lead  draps  about  her  lugs!  I'll  hae  nae  spyin' 
and  keyhole-hearkenin'  in  my  house !" 

******* 

What  passed  between  these  two  so  different  men  long 
remained  a  secret.  Even  now  some  part  of  their  converse 
has  never  had  the  light  cast  upon  it.  But  events  occur- 
ring, some  of  them  long  afterwards,  help  us  to  judge  of 
the  probable  purport  of  the  interview. 

The  two  men  were  types  of  the  different  races  which 
share  Galloway  unequally  between  them.  Sandy  Ewan 
was  as  clearly  of  the  conquering  caste  as  Crob  McRobb 
was  of  the  conquered.  Muckle  Sandy  Ewan  was  Anglo- 
Saxon — or  what  word  soever  better  expresses  that  colon- 
ising, steadily  annexing  strain  which  came  forth  out  of 
the  North  German  marshes,  poured  northward  through 
England,  and  in  Dumfries  and  Galloway  became  crossed 
with  Scandinavian  dourness.  Gone  awry  as  in  Sandy's 
case,  the  product  of  all  this  is  apt  to  become  aggressive, 
incurious  of  the  rights  of  others,  holding  for  all  moral 
law  and  gospel  a  certain  fear  of  consequences  and  cautious 
respect  for  a  whole  skin.  This  blonde  horse- faced  Gal- 
loway type  makes,  when  aroused,  a  very  dangerous  and 
highly  unscrupulous  enemy. 

Altogether  different  was  Crob  McRobb.  Dark,  slight, 
sharp-featured,  eyebrows  meeting  in  a  thick  bar  over 
small  quick-twinkling  eyes,  the  eyes  of  an  animal — adroit 
with  finger  and  brain,  by  nature  perfectly  lazy,  perfectly 
unscrupulous,  perfectly  a  liar,  ever  suspicious  and  on  the 
defensive,  grateful  for  favours,  indeed,  like  a  stray  dog, 
but  with  a  much  longer  memory  for  injuries,  in  nowise 
restrained  by  any  fear  of  consequences  whatsoever,  flash- 
ing out  into  sudden  angers,  and  striking  through  a  red 


144  STRONG  MAC 

mist — Crobb  was  in  essence  the  old  Pict — the  displaced, 
the  down-trodden,  the  despoiled  who  for  all  defence  has 
conserved  the  serpent's  tooth,  and  poison-bag,  together 
with  the  readiness  to  fasten  on  the  throat  of  a  victorious 
enemy. 

Almost  till  morning,  endured  this  pregnant  conference 
of  Scot  and  Pict.  Indeed,  the  February  dawn  was  already 
breaking  chill  and  grey  over  the  Solway  strip  when  the 
glittering-eyed  Pict  glided  out,  silent  as  a  shadow,  step- 
ping carefully  over  the  slumbering  form  of  Grieve  Cor- 
mack — who  had  stretched  himself  outside  the  library 
wrapped  in  his  plaid,  but  who,  fatigued  with  listening,  had 
fallen  asleep  with  his  head  against  the  jamb  of  the  door. 

Within,  his  master  lay  long  awake,  plotting  and  replot- 
ting  as  is  the  manner  of  his  kind.  He  had  found  his 
instrument.  Out  on  the  face  of  the  fields  towards  Lowran, 
a  certain  light-footed  stooping  shadow  laid  a  hand  on 
dykes  and  five-barred  gates,  going  over  them  like  a  bird 
or  diving  into  plantations  noiseless  and  unsubstantial  as 
a  drift  of  peat-reek.  At  last,  having  arrived  at  one  of 
his  many  caches,  Crob  McRobb  stopped  to  rub  his  palms 
together.  His  head  was  sunk  to  the  ears  between  his 
shoulders  out  of  the  way  of  the  February  frost.  The 
Pict  smiled.  He  had  found  a  job  to  his  liking. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AN  OLD  MAID'S  TEA-PARTY. 

SINISTER  rumors  ran  like  sheet  lightning  athwart  the 
countryside,  but  there  were  two  persons  whose  ears  they 
did  not  reach.  Bound  by  his  promise,  Roy  McCulloch 
kept  within  the  bounds  of  his  little  muircroft,  while  to  and 
fro  about  the  school  in  the  fir  plantation  Adora  Gracie 
did  her  own  work  and  her  father's,  recking  nothing  of 
dark  fell  Pict  or  blond  plotting  Saxon. 

Now  in  spite  of  the  war  (or  because  of  it),  things  went 
very  well  with  most  Galloway  farmers  in  the  Dear  Years. 
All  manner  of  produce  fetched  double  the  ordinary  prices, 
and  there  was  yet  no  thought  of  the  terrible  reckoning 
which  was  to  come  when  the  ports  should  open,  and  when, 
autumn  after  autumn,  worse  harvest  followed  bad  over  all 
Scotland.  Meantime  there  was  much  entertaining  and 
infinite  heartsome  congress  in  the  villages  and  among  the 
farm-towns.  The  poor  help  the  poor  in  their  poverty,  but 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  ingle  lowes  the  brighter,  the  pot 
bubbles  more  gratefully,  the  board  is  spread  more  kindly 
when  the  peat-shed  is  piled  high  with  purple-brown  peats, 
when  the  hams  hang  from  the  ceiling,  and  the  meal  ark 
spills  over  on  the  floor  each  time  the  guid-wife  thrusts 
her  wooden  scaup  therein. 

During  the  winter  there  had  been  many  gatherings 
(they  were  not  yet  called  "parties")  in  Lowran  and  the 
neighbouring  valleys.  To  these  Roy  McCulloch  went 
when  invited — at  least  when  there  was  a  reasonable  proba- 
bility of  Adora  being  there. 

Now  at  the  end  of  the  little  loan  which  led  to  the 


146  STRONG  MAC 

Gairie  farm,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Lowran  dwelt  a  cer- 
tain Aline  McQuhirr.  Her  younger  brother  held  the 
lease  of  the  excellent  arable  acres  of  Gairie,  and  also  of 
the  Gairie  hill,  a  sudden-rising  purple-black  ridge  of 
heather  and  bent  (locally  known  as  the  Four  Nines, 
because  it  was  believed  to  contain  9999  acres) — the  finest 
of  all  possible  pasture  for  black-faced  sheep.  Aline  Mc- 
Quhirr was  the  gentlest  old  maid  ever  seen.  For  many 
years  she  had  been  housekeeper  to  her  brother  Adam,  till 
one  day  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  that  he  would  get 
married.  It  was  felt  on  all  hands  to  be  a  somewhat  precipi- 
tate affair,  in  so  far  as  the  engagement  was  of  no  more 
than  twenty-four  years'  standing.  But  something  must 
be  forgiven  to  the  impetuosity  of  lovers.  So  they  were 
married — this  leisurely  Adam  and  his  not  impatient  Eve. 

But  in  their  Paradise  they  did  not  forget  the  gentle 
Aline.  In  time  Adam  installed  her  in  the  quaint  little 
cot-house  by  the  white  loaning-yett  of  the  Gairie,  which* 
presently  she  converted  into  a  place  of  blanched  window 
curtains  and  sweet-scented  flowers.  The  earliest  potatoes 
(always  ready  for  the  middle  Thursday  in  July,  being  the 
Fast  Day  preceding  the  parish  communion)  made  a  patch- 
work, dusky  purple  and  green,  in  her  back  yard.  The 
cunningest  jams  and  jellies  dwelt  of  habit  and  repute  in 
her  corner  cupboard.  None  could  confect  a  "lippie"  of 
shortbread  with  Aline  McQuhirr.  And  really  unless  she 
asked  you  to  one  of  her  evening  parties — well,  you  did  not 
know  what  a  party  was. 

And  indeed  there  were  not  so  many  in  the  parish  who 
did  know.  For  with  all  that  gentle  face  (in  which,  though 
her  hair  was  silver,  youth  and  love  and  sweetness  abode 
never  a  whit  the  worse  for  wear)  Aline  McQuhirr  was 
"verra  particular."  Not  every  one  pleased  her.  No  red- 
faced  jovial  farmers  cried  in  on  market  nights  as  they 
did  at  her  brother's  house  up  the  loaning.  No  toddy 
reeked  in  Aline's  ben  room,  but  for  the  favoured  there  was 
a  dish  of  tea — of  which  she  never  told  the  cost  per  pound. 
That  was,  without  irreverence,  between  her  and  her 


AN  OLD  MAID'S  TEA-PARTY  147 

Maker.  Aline  knew  it  was  far  more  than  she  ought 
to  have  afforded.  But  she  could  not  deny  herself  the 
pleasure  of  having  the  best  tea  and  the  repute  of  the 
daintiest  tea-table  in  Lowran.  It  was  her  sole  extrava- 
gance and — with  such  gentle  ways  and  a  heart  that 
counted  the  price  of  half  a  pound  of  Souchong  a  sin  to  be 
prayed  over  and  repented  of,  how  was  it  that  Aline  Mc- 
Quhirr  had  never  been  married? 

That  also  she  kept  to  herself.  But  Adora  knew.  There 
were  not  many  who  could  long  keep  anything  from  Adora 
Gracie.  So  it  came  about  that  of  all  the  parties  of  the 
year,  there  was  none  to  which  invitations  were  more 
eagerly  desired  than  to  that  given  by  the  old-maid  sister 
of  the  farmer  of  Gairie. 

Poor?  Of  a  verity,  no.  Those  who  think  that  Aline- 
of-the-Silver-Hair  was  so  poor  that  she  ought  not  to  have 
given  parties,  know  neither  Aline  nor  yet  what  it  means 
to  be  poor.  To  have  more  than  enough — that  is  to  be 
rich.  To  have  the  grasping,  getting,  insatiable,  grudging 
heart — that  is,  spite  of  treasured  millions,  to  be  poor. 

And  you  could  not  enter  Aline's  parlour,  or  sit  in  her 
speckless  kitchen  (which  was  a  far  better  thing),  without 
understanding  that  this  woman,  who  never  had  owned  two 
five  pound  notes  at  one  time  since  she  was  born,  was  rich 
in  love  and  faith  and  good  works.  Her  very  smile  was 
far  above  rubies.  If  she  liked  you,  you  could  see  the 
pleasure  with  which,  out  of  her  treasury,  she  brought  for 
your  delectation  things  new  and  old.  If  she  saw  you 
glance  that  way,  she  would  set  in  a  better  light  the  bust 
of  Buonaparte  on  her  mantel-shelf,  where  it  stood  oppo- 
site to  that  of  the  Empress  Josephine.  And  in  the  year 
1812  that  was  a  sure  sign  our  gentle  old  lady  could  think 
for  herself.  There  was  also  a  map  of  Europe  with  the 
Kingdom  of  Prussia  left  out  and  that  of  Poland  larger 
than  all  the  Russias.  It  had  been  drawn  (with  the  out- 
lines done  in  water-colour)  by  Aline  herself  when  she 
went  to  the  "finishing  school"  in  Edinburgh — I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you  how  many  years  ago,  lest  you  should 


148  STRONG  MAC 

laugh  at  the  dear  old  lady.  And  Aline  is  not  to  be 
laughed  at,  though  one  is  not  forbidden  to  smile,  and  if 
there  is  a  little  moisture  in  the  eyes,  so  much  the  better. 

The  night  of  Aline  McQuhirr's  party  arrived.  By  two 
o'clock  her  best  black  cap  was  on.  The  broad  lace  strings 
were  tied  under  her  chin,  and  over  her  shoulders  a  napkin 
of  lawn  was  becomingly  folded,  the  snowy  whiteness  of 
which  threw  up  a  kind  of  halo  about  Aline's  soft  face. 
This  was  to  deceive  anyone  who  happened  to  pass  the 
window  into  thinking  she  was  doing  nothing.  By  four 
o'clock  behold  her  sitting  at  the  window  as  composed  and 
ladylike  as  if  she  had  done  nothing  else  all  day.  Whereas 
you  had  only  to  look  at  the  spread  table  winking  and 
glittering,  to  know  that  she  had  been  hasting  to  and  fro 
ever  since  the  February  sun  glinted  in  at  the  windows 
over  the  snowy  blinds  and  cast  the  shadow  of  the  potted 
geranium  on  the  sill  suddenly  black  upon  the  opposite 
wall. 

As  she  sat  thus  there  came  a  rapping,  light,  quick, 
decided  at  the  door.  The  light  kindled  in  Aline's  tired 
eyes.  Her  heart  beat  almost  like  a  lover's. 

"Adora!"  she  murmured,  half  aloud,  as,  from  being 
much  alone,  she  had  a  habit  of  doing. 

"I  am  so  glad — "  (she  said  "gled,"  but  leaden  types  can- 
not follow  all  these  tender  inflections  any  more  than  mere 
words  can  describe  the  little  shy  touches  of  caressing 
with  which  she  made  Adora  understand  that  of  all  people 
in  the  world  she  was  the  most  welcome  in  that  house — 
which,  indeed,  the  spoilt  young  woman  knew  very  well). 

"I  came  sooner,  that  we  might  have  a  talk  together 
before  the  others  arrive.  I  hope  you  do  not  mind !"  said 
Adora  as  she  took  off  her  shawl. 

Then  she  settled  herself  down  upon  a  stool  by  Aline's 
side — "to  be  mothered,"  as  she  said.  Which  was  strange, 
seeing  that  Aline  never  had  a  child  and  Adora  remem- 
bered no  mother.  But  the  good  mother  and  the  true 
daughter  were  there,  side  by  side,  though  Fate  had  robbed 
them  of  the  relationship  by  blood. 


AN  OLD   MAID'S  TEA-PARTY  149 

"Was  there  no  other  reason?"  said  the  old-maid  mother 
with  a  quaint  intonation,  pinching  gently  the  girl's  cheek. 

"Not  what  you  think/'  replied  Adora,  swiftly;  "I  declare 
there  is  more  thought  of  love-making  in  that  nice  old  sil- 
ver-grey head  of  yours  than  in  my  whole  body,  soul  and 
spirit." 

"Ah,"  sighed  Aline,  "maybe  that  is  true.  And  if  so,  the 
worse  for  both  of  us !" 

"Nonsense — nonsense,  Aline,"  cried  our  emphatic  Dora, 
"never  yet  have  I  seen  the  man  I  would  not  make  singu- 
larly unhappy  if  I  married  him.  The  lads  never  know 
when  they  are  well  off.  If  they  did  they  would  let  me 
alone!" 

"And  Roy  McCulloch?"  said  the  old  lady  almost  in  a 
whisper.  She  laid  her  thin  hand  very  lightly  on  the  girl's 
shoulder.  Adora  caught  up  at  it  laughingly,  drew  down 
the  finger-tips  and  kissed  them. 

"Roy,  Roy — Roy — "  she  chanted  the  name  with  a  light 
trill  that  was  half  contempt  and  half  a  drolling  affection, 
"Roy  McCulloch !  Will  I  never  hear  the  beginning  and 
end  of  Roy  McCulloch?  But  I  thought  you  would  have 
known  better !" 

"Indeed,  I  wish  you  no  worse  fate,  Dora,"  said  her 
friend.  "Roy  McCulloch  is  one  of  the — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  cried  the  girl,  stopping  her  ears  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  "I  have  heard  all  his  perfections 
till  I  am  as  sick  of  them  as  a  mill-horse  of  his  rounds.  I 
know  them  like  the  A  B  C  at  the  end  of  the  Catechism. 
He  is  strong — but  not  so  strong  as  your  brother  Adam's 
plough-horse !  He  is  wholesome,  but  so  is  a  bowl  of  por- 
ridge!— Good  and  innocent,  but  so  is  a  quartern  loaf  of 
English  flour  at  one-and-fivepence  out  of  Robin 
Affleck's!" 

"No — no,  you  shall  not,  Dora!"  said  the  old  lady. 
"Listen—." 

"And  I  hear  them!"  cried  the  girl,  rising  to  her  feet, 
"I  was  just  in  time.  That  is  your  non-such  Roy,  who  has 
doubtless  been  waiting  at  the  road-end  to  convoy  me  here. 


ISO  STRONG  MAC 

It  is  bad  enough  to  have  to  go  home  with  him,  but  Roy 
McCulloch  down  Lowran  street  at  four  of  the  clock  in  the 
afternoon — no,  Aline,  I  thank  you !" 

Upon  this  arrived  in  quick  succession  Miss  McQuhirr's 
guests,  and  very  delicately  the  old  lady  welcomed  them, 
according  to  each  his  standing  and  desert.  Jock  Fairies 
was  among  the  first.  His  thatch  of  brown  hair  left  long  at 
the  back,  had  been  pulled  and  plaited  into  the  strangest 
queue  and  tied  up  with  a  piece  of  black  ribbon  much  like  a 
horse's  tail  on  a  fair-day.  But  though  Adora  smiled  at  the 
appearance  he  presented,  the  good  humour  and  real 
friendliness  of  Jock's  chubby  face  soon  made  her  for- 
get the  uncouthness  of  his  guise.  There  was  one 
intruder.  Sandy  Ewan  had  ridden  over  from  the  new 
house  of  Boreland,  stabling  his  horse  in  the  village,  where, 
finding  that  Adora  had  already  taken  wing,  he  had  solaced 
himself  by  walking  over  with  Charlotte  Webster,  who 
showed  herself  delighted  to  have  the  escort  of  so  distin- 
guished a  cavalier.  But  to  the  party  itself  Sandy  Ewan 
had  not  been  invited.  So,  though  he  could  have  bought 
up  little  old-maid  Aline  a  score  of  times  and  never  missed 
the  price,  yet  there  was  no  admittance  for  him  into  that 
poor  self-respecting  cot  at  the  foot  of  the  Gairie  road-end. 
After  lingering  a  little  in  full  view  of  the  windows,  bid- 
ding repeated  good-byes  to  Charlotte,  Sandy  took  himself 
away  up  to  the  farmhouse,  declaring  with  a  loud  laugh, 
that  "a  man  needed  something  more  stieve  than  a  wash  of 
tea  for  his  inside." 

Nevertheless,  he  looked  back  often  as  he  went.  For  the 
shapely  head  of  Adora  Gracie  had  passed  and  repassed  the 
window  as  he  stood  looking  over  Charlotte  Webster's 
shoulder  while  pretending  to  talk  to  her — a  proceeding 
which  that  young  woman  resented  exceedingly,  and  stored 
up  against  him  for  future  repayment. 

Very  sagely  Adora  assisted  her  hostess  to  do  the  hon- 
ours, and  though  she  pretended  to  care  nothing  about  such 
matters,  she  was  secretly  piqued  that  Roy  McCulloch, 
after  having  shaken  hands  with  her,  appeared  to  devote 


AN  OLD   MAID'S  TEA-PARTY  151 

his  attention  entirely  to  Charlotte  Webster.  That  damsel, 
unaccustomed  to  homage  from  the  handsome  Roy,  sur- 
rounded him  with  palpable  airs  of  monopoly,  even  ventur- 
ing to  patronise  Adora,  to  that  lady's  particular  amuse- 
ment and  to  the  great  indignation  of  her  silver-haired  hos- 
tess, whose  mental  note  ran  thus :  "Memorandum:  Char- 
lotte Webster — NOT  to  be  asked  next  year!' 

Then  Aline,  in  the  proverbial  expression,  "set  her  brains 
to  steep."  That  is,  being  resolved  that  no  mere  feather- 
head  like  Charlotte  should  put  her  Adora  in  the  back- 
ground, she  summoned  Roy  to  sit  at  her  right  hand,  which 
gave  him  the  maid  of  her  heart  upon  his  other  side,  while 
poor  Charlotte  was  banished  far  down  the  table  and  forced 
to  console  herself  with  the  coltish  whispered  jocularities  of 
Jock  Fairies. 

There  is  little  to  describe  in  an  evening  party  at  old- 
maid  Aline's  save  the  impression  of  gentle  refinement, 
which  was  not  without  its  effect  on  the  rudest  natures. 
Hope  Meiklewham,  the  minister's  daughter,  would  have 
given  a  bit  of  one  of  her  pretty  €ars  to  be  present,  but  that 
by  her  position  in  society  and  her  father's  strictness  was 
denied  to  her.  She  proclaimed,  far  and  wide,  however, 
that  Aline  herself  was  a  better  sermon  on  the  Christian 
virtues  than  had  ever  been  preached  in  Lowran  since  the 
day  when  the  great  outcast  minister  John  McMillan  went 
down  the  kirk-brae  for  the  last  time. 

People  did  not  argue  at  Aline's.  They  never  quarrelled. 
There  was  not  too  much  love-making,  but  enough.  What 
there  was  was  conducted  quietly,  discreetly,  mostly  with 
the  eyelashes.  There  was  also  some  singing,  and  Aline 
told  the  famous  story  of  her  Uncle  David  and  the  widow's 
dun  cow — when,  as  usual,  she  forgot  the  point.  Which 
was  the  point. 

In  short,  these  folk,  far  from  the  life  of  towns, 
enjoyed  quietly  and  sedately  the  good  things  which  were 
within  their  reach.  Their  talk  was  sensible — on  the  whole. 
And  whatsoever  failed  of  that  was  cheerful,  sane  fooling, 
which  hindered  no  man  nor  hurt  any  woman.  There  was 


152  STRONG  MAC 

nothing  either  said  or  done  that  little  old-maid  Aline  need 
have  shut  her  ears  to. 

But  in  the  background  of  the  idyll,  up  in  the  parlour 
of  the  farmhouse  of  Gairie,  sat  the  foul  Fiend — such  a 
fiend  as  in  these  times  is  permitted  to  go  visibly  abroad  in 
the  face  of  day — drinking  whisky  toddy  with  Adam  Mc- 
Quhirr.  Though  fond  of  his  glass,  the  farmer  of  Gairie 
wanted  sadly  to  get  down  to  his  sister's  party.  But  he  was 
a  man  who  found  a  difficulty  in  saying  "No,"  and  besides, 
he  did  not  know  when  he  might  need  what  is  technically 
called  "an  obleegement"  from  such  an  important  person 
as  Sandy  Ewan. 

So  he  sat  there  in  his  dusky  parlour  making  friends  with 
the  mammon  of  unrighteousness,  and  entertaining  the 
devil  in  all  innocence  of  heart.  For  a  man  who  is  given  to 
hospitality  may  at  times  entertain  both  kinds  of  angels, 
equally  at  unaware. 

The  evening  wore  all  too  rapidly  to  the  butt.  The  voices 
in  the  cot  at  the  loaning  end  sounded  more  and  more 
cheerfully  through  the  darkness.  A  consciousness  of  the 
black  night  all  about  made  the  lights  burn  ever  clearer 
within.  The  lilted  songs,  the  slow  turn  of  Scots  humour, 
the  quick-running  saucy  jest — this  last  mostly  from  Adora 
Gracie,  the  ease  of  speech  and  unbound  heart,  made  the 
hours  speed  too  fast  to  the  parting.  The  guests  made 
their  adieus,  Roy  lingering  on  the  doorstep  for  Adora 
while  Aline  whispered  in  her  ear  as  she  lovingly  settled 
her  own  shawl  about  the  young  girl's  head  and  over  her 
shoulders — a  beautiful  white  cashmere — the  old  maid's 
chiefest  treasure. 

And  meantime,  expectant,  upon  the  short  grass  of  the 
knowes  without,  Fate,  smelling  of  whisky  toddy, 
crouched  waiting. 

Without  words  spoken  Roy  had  settled  the  question 
that  he  was  to  see  Adora  home.  She  would  not,  he  knew, 
refuse  him  that.  It  was  provided  for  in  their  contract  of 
brother  and  sister.  He  had  been  reading  Smollett's  con- 
tinuation of  Hume's  History  and  was  prepared  for  dis- 


AN  OLD  MAID'S  TEA-PARTY  153 

cussion.  He  ran  over  certain  points  in  his  mind.  No, 
he  had  not  forgotten  anything.  He  was  perfect  even  in 
his  dates. 

He  stood  silently  admiring,  as  with  a  motion  of  her 
head,  shapely  even  when  half-hidden  in  the  folds  of  a 
shawl,  Adora  turned  sideways  to  grasp  her  skirts,  swing- 
ing them  upward  with  a  little  petulant  shake.  Then  her 
other  hand  was  ready  to  be  laid  upon  Strong  Mac's  arm. 
When  he  felt  the  pressure,  light  as  a  feather,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  became  weak  as  a  child. 

Once  they  were  started  Roy  searched  for  a  conversa- 
tional opening  in  order  to  take  away  the  character  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  but  Adora's  first  words  made  this  some- 
what difficult. 

"Why  did  you  not  go  home  with  Charlotte  Webster?" 
she  asked  in  wondering  tones,  "it  was  very  ill  done  of 
Aline  to  call  you  away  from  Charlotte's  society !" 

In  another  girl  and  with  another  suitor,  this  would  have 
been  the  invitation  of  the  country  coquette — nothing  more 
or  less.  But  each  knew  the  other  and  Roy  declined  his 
opportunity.  He  did  not  even  pretend  to  misunderstand. 

"You  were  busy,"  said  Strong  Mac,  "and  I  could  wait." 

"You  need  not  have  waited  with  Charlotte  Webster," 
said  Adora,  with  something  like  a  pout  of  human  disap- 
proval. "Tell  me,  what  did  you  talk  to  her  about?" 

"About — "  Strong  Mac  hesitated — then  with  a  burst  of 
confidence,  "we  talked  about  the  Reformation  and  Queen 
Mary !" 

Clear  and  merry  rang  Adora's  laugh  of  scorn. 

"The  Reformation— and  Charlotte  Webster !"  she  cried, 
"that  were  a  Reformation  indeed  to  talk  about.  Well, 
how  far  did  you  get?  Did  you  fall  out  about  Queen 
Mary?  It  is  easy  to  come  to  loggerheads  about  the 
Reformation !" 

"No,"  said  Strong  Mac,  smiling,  "we  did  not  quarrel." 

"Ah,"  said  Adora,  simmering  with  mischief,  "tell  me  all 
you  talked  about — every  word — and  especially  what 
Charlotte  had  to  say  about  the  Reformation !" 


154  STRONG  MAC 

"Oh,  she  did  not  say  very  much,"  continued  the  traitor 
Roy,  as  the  manner  of  men  is,  purchasing  favour  by 
maligning  the  other  woman,  "we  did  not  get  very  far. 
For  the  fact  is,  Charlotte  thought  that  John  Knox  was 
the  man  they  killed  because  he  played  the  fiddle  to  the 
Queen !" 

Adora  clutched  at  Roy's  arm  and  on  the  hard  road  her 
feet  danced  a  little  joyous  jig. 

"Oh,  you  dears — both  of  you!"  she  cried.  And  spite 
of  entreaty,  she  refused  to  explain  this  mysterious  eulo- 
gium.  Strong  Mac  felt  that  he  could  extract  but  little 
comfort  from  an  expression  of  affection  which  he  shared 
with  Charlotte  Webster.  But  then,  again,  the  little  clutch 
on  the  arm  had  not  been  divided.  That  was  his  own  and 
he  thankfully  stored  it  away  to  be  a  comfort  to  him 
through  lonely  days  and  nights  sleepless. 

Then  instead  of  advancing  from  post  to  pillar  like  the 
true  encroaching  lover  whose  motto  is  (or  ought  to  be) 
Tou fours  I'audace!  Strong  Mac  now  proved  somewhat 
un-enterprising.  He  listened  happily  to  Adora's  fast-flow- 
ing talk,  his  slow  faithful  heart  thrilling  like  an  instru- 
ment of  strings  to  the  lightest  ripple  of  her  laughter.  She 
spoke  of  her  father  with  good-humoured  insight  into  his 
lesser  weaknesses,  sometimes  softening  her  voice  to  a 
kind  of  pride  which  was  not  without  its  tragic  aspect. 

Unconsciously  they  had  lingered  a  little.  The  other 
pairs  and  groups  had  scattered  this  way  and  that.  To 
Roy  there  was  something  wonderfully  moving  in  the 
sense  he  had  of  the  nearness  of  the  girl  he  loved.  Little 
dainty  touches  of  lace,  the  pleasant  rustle  of  silk,  an 
atmosphere  of  maiden  freshness  all  strange  to  his  woman- 
less  home,  fretted  his  heart  with  desirings  acute  as  they 
were  indefinite.  Nevertheless  he  was  happy,  thus  walk- 
ing, listening,  putting  in  a  word  here  and  there,  his  heart 
beating  all  the  while  almost  audibly.  No  talk  of  histories 
now  or  the  great  deeds  of  great  men,  but  simple  homely 
gossip,  the  nothings  of  personality  that  please  boys  and 
girls  when  the  years  are  yet  few,  when  "I"  and  "she" 


AN  OLD  MAID'S  TEA-PARTY  155 

' 

make  all  the  world,  when  the  blood  tingles  quick  in  the 
veins,  and  when  life  tastes  fresh  and  strong  as  the  first 
blatter  of  brine  blown  in  the  face  of  one  who  travels  sea- 
ward. 

They  were  ascending  the  long  brae  at  the  top  of  which 
is  situated  the  Lowran  kirk.  Down  in  the  hollow  there 
had  been  only  a  soughing  stillness,  but  as  they  mounted 
the  kirk-hill  the  breeze  came  suddenly  out  of  the  west, 
moaning  and  creaking  among  the  glimmering  cross- 
hatching  of  the  bare  branches  above.  At  which  with  the 
quick  causeless  resolution  of  the  bashful,  Roy  put  his 
hand  upon  Adora's  as  it  lay  across  his  sleeve. 

"I  have  kept  my  word  to  you,"  he  said,  "I  have  neither 
gone  to  the  smuggling  nor  yet  sought  fur  or  feather  off 
our  own  land  since  I  gave  you  my  promise." 

For  reward  Adora  let  her  hand  remain  where  it  was, 
sure  that  the  limit  of  his  encroachment  was  reached.  In- 
deed, too  sure. 

"I  thank  you,  Roy !"  she  answered,  softly  for  her.  But 
her  heart  desired  more — nay  required  it  from  the  man  she 
was  to  love. 

******* 

At  that  moment  half  a  dozen  dark  shapes,  suddenly  ris- 
ing out  of  the  deep  blackness  of  a  wayside  copse,  threw 
themselves  upon  Roy  McCulloch.  There  was  a  waving 
of  lanterns.  From  every  side  men  came  running. 

"We  have  him !"  cried  two  or  three  voices.  "Hold  him ! 
Hold  him !"  cried  others. 

One  man  caught  Adora  roughly  by  the  arm  and 
dragged  her  away  from  her  escort. 

With  a  sudden  roar  of  anger  like  a  lion  roused,  Strong 
Mac  sent  the  four  who  held  him  reeling  this  way  and 
that,  and  sprang  upon  the  man  who  had  touched  Adora. 

But  the  girl,  though  bewildered  by  the  suddenness  of 
the  onslaught,  knew  well  where  lay  the  greatest  danger. 
Had  Strong  Mac  smitten  once  in  that  fierce  wrath  of  his, 
the  assailant  might  never  have  spoken  again.  The  fellow 
let  go  his  hold  and  stood  coweringly  on  his  defence. 


156  STRONG  MAC 

"He  has  not  hurt  me,  Roy !"  she  cried,  "do  not  strike !" 

But  Roy,  disregarding  a  feeble  blow,  aimed  at  him, 
already  had  the  man  by  the  throat,  while  a  fresh  cloud  of 
assailants  was  flinging  itself  on  his  shoulders,  and  striv- 
ing to  pull  him  to  the  ground.  At  the  sound  of  Adora's 
voice  the  young  man  slackened  his  grip  and  caught  up 
a  heavy  club  of  blackthorn  which  had  fallen  to  the 
ground.  With  one  mighty  effort  he  rid  himself  of  his 
foes,  and  putting  Adora  behind  him,  stood  clear  with  his 
back  to  the  steep  bank,  swinging  the  cudgel  over  his 
head. 

"Now  what  does  this  mean?"  he  shouted,  "quick,  out 
with  it,  you  scoundrels — or  I  will  break  every  bone  in 
your  bodies!" 

"7n  the  King's  name!"  gasped  the  man  who  had 
caught  Adora  by  the  arm.  "Roy  McCulloch,  I  arrest 
you  by  warrant  of  the  sheriff." 

"And  on  what  charge?"  said  Roy  calmly. 

"Sheep-stealing!"  answered  the  officer. 

At  this  point  a  horseman  rode  up  hastily  from  the 
direction  of  the  Gairie  farmhouse. 

"What  have  you  here?"  he  cried.  "By  what  right  do 
you  dare  to  lay  hands  on  this  gentleman  ?" 

The  new  comer  was  Sandy  Ewan,  who  had  sat  thus 
long  with  Adam  McQuhirr  over  their  whisky  toddy. 
Adora  sprang  towards  him. 

"Save  him!"  she  said  eagerly;  "tell  them  he  is  inno- 
cent. You  know  he  is  innocent !" 

"Officer,  I  demand  to  be  told  the  meaning  of  this!" 
cried  Sandy  Ewan  sternly;  "I  warn  you  that  if  there  is 
anything  wrong,  you  shall  suffer  for  it.  I  am  a  justice 
of  the  peace.  Who  accuses  Roy  McCulloch  of  sheep- 
stealing?" 

"Here  is  the  sheriff's  warrant,  sir,"  said  the  man,  sul- 
lenly. "Ye  can  read  it  for  yourselM  And  if  I  mistake 
not  the  offence  charged  is  the  stealing  of  your  ain  sheep, 
Maister  Ewan!" 

"But  who  is  the  informant  ?"  demanded  the  gentleman- 


AN  OLD   MAID'S  TEA-PARTY  157 

farmer,  truculently;  "answer  me  that.  It  is  true  that  I 
may  have  lost  a  sheep  or  two  at  odd  times,  but  I  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  accusing  myself  as  my  old — (he 
searched  for  words)  friend  and  companion,  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch !" 

"I  have  no  claim  to  be  either,"  said  Strong  Mac, 
standing  calmly  at  bay,  "I  decline  your  assistance,  Alex- 
ander Ewan.  Officer,  let  me  see  your  warrant,  and  if  it 
be  in  order  and  you  are  doing  your  duty,  I  will  go  with 
you  peaceably  to  answer  this  or  any  other  charge !" 

The  paper  was  handed  over.  A  subordinate  held  a 
lantern  to  enable  Strong  Mac  to  read  the  warrant  for 
his  apprehension  "upon  information  laid  before  the 
sheriff  substitute  of  Kirkcudbright/' 

"I  will  accompany  you,"  said  Roy  quietly,  "but  first 
let  us  go  a  few  yards  out  of  our  way  to  convoy  this  lady 
to  her  home.  We  can  follow  the  cross-road  through  the 
policies,  and  thus  avoid  the  village." 

Among  the  men  there  was  some  demur.  It  was  far 
about,  a  dark  inconvenient  road,  liable  to  accident  of 
sudden  assault  or  rescue. 

"Tut,"  said  Sandy  Ewan,  "do  as  you  are  bid.  If  Roy 
McCulloch  had  wanted  to  be  rescued,  he  and  I  together 
could  have  thrown  the  whole  of  you  into  the  Lowran  Burn 
in  five  minutes.  But  I  will  tell  you  what  to  do.  First  put 
the  young  lady  in  security,  and  do  you  all  accompany 
me  to  my  house  of  Boreland,  where  it  will  be  a  great 
pleasure  to  me  to  entertain  you  till  the  morning.  I  will 
then  provide  a  conveyance  in  which  to  take  your  prisoner 
to  Kirkcudbright !" 

The  men  looked  at  each  other.  It  seemed  an  easy 
way  out  of  a  difficulty.  There  was  indeed  no  great 
desire  among  them  to  undertake  the  long  night's  travel 
to  Kirkcudbright  with  Roy  McCulloch  on  their  hands. 
The  chief  officer  was  inclined  to  yield,  but  the  prisoner 
stood  stiffly  upon  his  rights  to  prison  and  an  immediate 
confrontation  with  the  sheriff. 

"Go  with  Sandy  Ewan,  Roy,"  whispered  Adora,  "per- 


158  STRONG  MAC 

haps  you  may  find  out  what  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this." 

"It  is  only  a  plot  to  get  rid  of  me !"  was  Roy's  indig- 
nant answer. 

"No  matter,"  the  girl  answered  eagerly;  "do  as  I  bid 
you.  I  myself  will  tell  your  father  all  that  has  happened 
in  the  morning.  Go  with  Sandy  Ewan — I  think  he  means 
to  be  kind." 

Roy  said  no  more  and  the  party  turned  sharply  to  the 
right  through  the  policies  of  Lowran  Great  House — the 
lanterns  making  a  waving  patch  of  illumination  about 
them  as  they  proceeded.  In  the  ditch  of  the  sunk  fences 
little  wreaths  of  unmelted  snow,  sodden  and  grey  in  the 
daytime,  flashed  up  into  startling  whiteness,  the  ragged 
hoops  and  tangles  of  the  dripping  brambles  standing  black 
against  them. 

Adora  stopped  at  the  little  school  loaning.  Roy  held 
out  his  hand.  There  was  no  word  in  their  hearts  which 
either  of  them  could  speak  to  the  other  before  so  many. 
But  as  Roy  stood  dumb  before  her  with  the  eyes  of  a 
faithful  animal,  strong  yet  pitiful,  all  suddenly  Adora 
set  her  hands  on  his  neck,  pulled  down  his  face  towards 
her  and  kissed  him. 

That  was  at  once  her  defiance  and  the  symbol  of  her 
faith. 

And  as  he  tramped  away  in  the  darkness,  the  men 
marching  sullenly  and  apathetically  about  him,  and 
Sandy  Ewan  chewing  some  bitter  cud  upon  his  horse's 
back  as  he  followed,  Roy  thought  with  pride  and  joy 
that  Adora  had  kissed  him  because  she  loved  him.  It 
was  natural  he  should  think  so. 

You  see,  he  was  a  man. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  SHERIFF'S  ROOM. 

IT  was  in  the  sheriff's  room  at  Kirkcudbright,  at  his 
private  examination,  that  Roy  first  learned  the  nature  of 
the  charges  brought  against  him.  The  apartment  was 
sparsely  furnished.  In  the  centre  was  a  table  bearing 
evidence  in  carefully  graded  ink  stains  of  the  scrivening 
labours  of  former  sheriffs'  clerks,,  and  in  more  recent 
circles  (taken  in  connection  with  a  pervading  flavour  of 
tobacco)  of  the  jovial  habits  of  the  present  occupant. 

There  were  also  some  volumes  of  law  books  in  faded 
yellow  calf,  bundles  of  letters  marked  with  tags  of  pink 
tape,  and  a  pile  of  novels  in  a  corner,  half  hidden  by  a 
huge  frieze  riding-coat. 

The  sheriff's  substitute,  Martin  Dalmahoy,  a  jovial 
red-faced  man,  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table.  During  the 
first  part  of  the  examination  he  pouted  his  lips,  hummed, 
whistled,  and  consulted  his  watch  about  once  in  every 
three  minutes,  evidently  wishing  the  whole  affair  at 
Jericho.  The  fiscal,  Dicky  Henderson  by  name,  was  a 
tall  sallow  man  with  a  long  lean  nose  bent  a  little  to  the 
side,  as  if,  after  much  endeavour,  he  had  at  last  succeeded 
in  seeing  his  opponent  round  it. 

It  was  he  who  put  the  questions,  with  the  air  of  a 
judge  assuming  the  black  cap.  The  sheriff  confined  him- 
self to  cautioning  Roy  officially.  In  emitting  his  declara- 
tion, it  appeared,  anything  that  he  might  say  might  be 
used  against  him.  But  Mr.  Dalmahoy  dropped  into  the 
kindlier  folk-speech  with  his  last  sentence. 


160  STRONG  MAC 

"Ye  may  say  naething  if  ye  are  so  pleased,"  he  said, 
"but  I  advise  ye  to  speak  up  for  your  own  sake,  my  lad — 
and  a  decent  lad  ye  look.  Fegs,  I  would  raither  have 
expected  to  see  ye  afore  me  on  account  o'  some  wee  bit 
affair  wi'  his  Majesty's  revenue,  or  because  ye  were  ower 
weel  acquent  wi'  the  lasses !  But  as  I  was  saying,  ye  had 
far  better  tell  us  a'  that  ye  ken  aboot  this  job.  For  if 
ye  say  naething,  ye  ken,  it  has  been  my  experience  that 
that  gangs  waur  doon  wi'  the  jury  than  the  maist  un- 
faceable  tale  ye  can  put  your  tongue  till!  Caa'  awa', 
fiscal !" 

Roy,  standing  quietly  at  the  end  of  the  table,  only 
bowed,  awaiting  definite  question. 

"You  are  the  son  of  one  Sharon  McCulloch,  in  House 
of  Muir?"  said  the  fiscal. 

"Of  House  of  Muir!"  answered  Roy  with  the  pre- 
cision of  fact. 

The  fiscal  bit  his  lip  at  his  false  start.  The  preposition 
marked  the  owner,  not  the  tenant.  The  sheriff  forgot 
to  consult  his  watch  and  smiled.  This  might  prove  more 
interesting  than  he  had  anticipated. 

"Ah,  yes,"  Fiscal  Henderson  tried  again,  not  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  table,  on  which  he  was  pretending  to 
be  occupied  with  his  papers,  "I  believe  I  have  observed 
in  the  valuation  roll  the  name  of  Sharon  McCulloch  as 
owner  and  occupier  of  some  few  moorland  acres — an 
enclose,  if  I  mistake  not,  between  the  estates  of  Bar- 
whinnock  and  Lowran." 

"Three  hundred  acres,"  corrected  Roy. 

"Your  family  has  often  been  in  difficulty  with  the 
authorities  as  to  excise  and  revenue,"  he  continued.  "Your 
grandfather — your  father — you  yourself — have  all  been 
little  better  than  habit  and  repute  smugglers!" 

"Is  that  the  offence  with  which  I  am  charged?"  said 
Roy. 

"You  are  here  not  to  question  me,"  said  the  fiscal 
sharply,  "but  to  answer  my  questions." 

Strong  Mac  bowed. 


THE  SHERIFF'S  ROOM  161 

"As  soon  as  you  ask  me  any  questions,  I  will  do  my 
best  to  answer  them/*  said  the  young  man. 

"I  warn  you  that  you  are  not  doing  yourself  any  good 
by  bandying  words,"  said  the  fiscal.  "Do  you  or  do  you 
not  admit  that  your  family  has  been  connected  with 
smuggling  ?" 

"I  have  never  been  in  a  court  of  law  in  my  life/'  said 
Strong  Mac,  "I  have  never  been  apprehended  or  charged 
with  any  offence  against  the  law  whatsoever.  As  to  my 
father  and  my  grandfather,  well — you  can  ask  them !" 

The  sheriff,  who  had  his  reasons  for  not  assisting  the 
fiscal,  glanced  shrewdly  at  his  clerk,  who,  as  a  sign  of 
appreciation,  bit  at  the  feather  of  the  pen  with  which  he 
was  noting  down  question  and  answer,  for  the  declara- 
tion which  must  be  signed  by  the  prisoner. 

"You  are  also  a  noted  poacher  and  deer-stealer,"  con- 
tinued the  fiscal.  "The  surrounding  landlords  have 
often  had  reason  to  complain  of  you.  But  this  is  a  matter 
infinitely  more  serious.  From  the  farm  of  Upper  Airie, 
tenanted  by  Mr.  Alexander  Ewan  of  Boreland,  three 
sheep  have  been  missed.  From  the  same  gentleman's 
farm  of  Lower  or  Nether  Airie,  which  marches  directly 
with  your  father's  lands,  no  fewer  than  ten  sheep  have 
been  missing  during  the  last  three  months.  Now,  mark 
me  well,  the  skins  of  all  the  thirteen  have  been  found  con- 
cealed behind  a  haymow  in  a  barn  upon  your  father's 
property.  You  have  also  often  been  seen  trespassing  with- 
out excuse  upon  the  lands  of  Airie,  both  by  day  and  night. 
What  have  you  to  say  to  these  accusations?" 

"Before  I  answer  I  would  like  to  know  who  laid  the 
information  on  which  the  sheriff  granted  the  warrant 
of  arrest !" 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  that  at  this  stage,"  said  the 
sheriff. 

"Can  I  have  my  father  or  a  lawyer  to  assist  me  in 
repelling  so  serious  and  unfounded  a  charge?" 

Roy  was  determined  to  say  no  more  than  was  neces- 
sary. He  had  not  the  usual  instinct  of  the  innocent  that 


162  STRONG  MAC 

the  mere  telling  of  his  story  would  be  sufficient  to  clear 
him.  He  could  see  that  there  was  a  deep-laid  plot  against 
him.  No  doubt,  therefore,  there  were  other  traps  set  for 
him  into  which  he  might  fall  by  replying  too  hastily. 

The  sheriff  explained,  not  unkindly. 

"At  a  later  stage  you  will  have  every  access  to  your 
friends  and  to  a  lawyer,  if  you  decide  to  employ  one,  but 
at  the  present  stage  you  must  answer  clearly  all  the 
questions  which  are  put  to  you  by  the  fiscal.  And  as  I 
advised  ye  before,  the  cleaner  breast  ye  make  of  it,  the 
mair  chance  there  will  be  for  your  craig  to  miss  findin' 
the  wecht  o'  your  tail  in  a  tow-rape!" 

This  was  the  sheriff's  proverbial  way  of  reminding 
his  prisoner  that  sheep-stealing  was  a  capital  offence, 
also  that  it  behoved  him  to  be  wary  and  not  fall  out  in 
advance  with  those  in  whose  hands  his  fate  might 
lie. 

"Have  you  been  upon  the  lands  of  Nether  Airie  during 
the  last  three  months,  and,  if  so,  for  what  purpose  ?" 
demanded  the  fiscal. 

"Never  to  meddle  with  any  man's  sheep,  and  not  at  all 
during  the  last  few  weeks,"  said  Roy,  quietly. 

"You  admit,  then,  that  you  have  been  upon  the  lands 
of  Nether  Airie  during,  let  us  say,  the  last  month  ?" 

"It  is  possible,"  said  Roy,  guardedly,  "that  I  might 
have  crossed  the  Nether  Airie  moors  once  or  twice  in 
the  weeks  immediately  after  the  New  Year." 

"And  for  what  purpose?" 

"I  was  returning  from  visiting  some  of  my  friends — 
usually  in  the  evening." 

"At  what  hour  in  the  evening  were  you  in  the  habit 
of  passing  across  the  Nether  Airie  moors?"  pursued  the 
fiscal. 

"My  friends  live  some  considerable  distance  away," 
said  Strong  Mac,  "and  it  might  be  somewhere  between 
nine  and  ten  o'clock,  or  even  later,  before  I  crossed  the 
Pluckamin  Glen  into  the  Nether  Airie  moors." 

"And  who,  it  would  be  interesting  to  know,  were  the 


THE  SHERIFF'S  ROOM  163 

friends  whom  it  was  your  custom  to  visit  so  late  at 
night  ?" 

Strong  Mac  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  He  had  been 
expecting  the  question  and  had  his  answer  ready. 

"I  cannot  on  any  account  bring  my  friends  into  the 
question.  They  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  actions,  good 
or  bad,  and  I — " 

Here  the  sheriff  interrupted.  He  had  altogether 
ceased  to  look  at  his  watch.  Something  in  the  attitude 
of  the  young  fellow  convinced  him  that  on  this  occasion 
he  had  no  affair  with  a  mere  vulgar  sheep-stealer.  The 
man  before  him  was  either  one  of  the  highest  class  of 
criminals,  or  he  was  an  innocent  man  falsely  accused. 
The  sheriff  proposed  to  himself  to  find  out  which. 

"Let  me  caution  you  again/'  he  said,  "this  is  a  private 
inquiry.  The  information  we  obtain  from  you  may  or 
may  not  be  used  in  court.  If,  however,  you  satisfy  me  of 
your  innocence,  you  walk  out  of  this  room  a  free  man. 
But  I  warn  you  that,  by  refusing  to  give  up  the  name  of 
the  friends  to  visit  whom  you  went  and  came  across  the 
Nether  Airie  moors,  you  go  far  to  justify  a  prima  facie 
case  against  you." 

Roy  McCulloch  shook  his  head.  He  foresaw  the  local 
papers  with  the  evidence  printed  in  full,  and  names  that 
were  dearer  to  him  than  life  bandied  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  staled  by  all  ignoble  use.  The  alehouse  and  the 
stable  should  not  make  their  jests  upon — those  whom  he 
loved. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  can  do  no  more,"  he  said,  "what- 
ever may  be  the  consequences." 

"Then  you  refuse  to  clear  yourself?"  said  the  fiscal. 
"You  will  not  answer  my  question." 

"I  will  answer  anything  which  has  reference  directly 
to  the  charge  brought  against  me,"  said  Strong  Mac. 

"But,"  said  the  fiscal,  "we  and  not  you  must  be  the 
judges  of  that,  and  indeed  that  is  just  what  you  refuse 
to  do.  According  to  the  information  before  me,  thefts 
of  sheep  have  been  going  on  from  the  moor  of  Nether 


164  STRONG  MAC 

Airie  during  the  last  three  or  four  months.  The  fleeces 
found  in  your  barn  are  of  various  ages,  corresponding 
generally  to  the  times  at  which  the  thefts  were  com- 
mitted. The  ear  on  which  the  Mr.  Ewan's  earmark  was 
impressed  has  in  every  case  been  cut  away,  obviously 
for  the  purpose  of  preventing  identification.  If  there- 
fore you  confess  to  having  been  in  the  habit  of  frequent- 
ing the  Nether  Airie  moors  at  night,  and  refuse  to  sup- 
ply us  with  the  means  of  verifying  your  statements  and 
checking  your  alleged  friendly  visits,  we  are  shut  in  to 
the  conclusion  that  you  were  upon  Nether  Airie  for  pur- 
poses other  than  innocent." 

The  fiscal  achieved  his  phrase  with  a  certain  feeling 
of  triumph  and  sat  looking  at  his  prisoner  for  the  first 
time  round  the  corner  of  his  nose.  The  sheriff  moved 
uncomfortably  in  his  chair. 

"I  warn  you  again  that  it  is  better  for  you  to  answer," 
he  said ;  "I  declare  I'm  loath  to  send  to  jail  a  fine  lad  that 
micht  be  better  employed  servin'  his  Majesty — but  if 
ye  dinna  speak  plain,  by  my  faith,  I  will  juist  hae  to 
commit  ye!  I  see  not  what  else  I  can  do!" 

And  so  accordingly,  and  without  further  debate,  Roy 
McCulloch  stood  committed  to  take  his  trial  for  the 
crime  of  sheep-stealing  from  the  farms  of  Upper  and 
Nether  Airie,  and  in  the  meantime  he  was  appointed  to 
lie  in  the  county  jail,  awaiting  the  advent  of  the  commis- 
sion of  Justiciary  at  the  nearest  circuit  town. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  DARK   COMPANION. 

STRANGE  and  manifold  are  the  ways  of  the  heart  of 
women.  Deeply  as  Adora  Gracie  felt  for  Roy  McCul- 
loch,  and  glad  as  she  was  to  have  kissed  him  before  them 
all,  she  could  not  conceal  from  herself  that  he  had  been 
somewhat  ungenerous  in  the  matter  of  Sandy  Ewan. 
That  young  man  had,  she  thought,  meant  well,  and  she 
had  the  conviction,  latent  in  the  mind  of  all  women  that 
in  affairs  touching  justice  and  the  law,  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  the  matter  is  to  have  some  one  to  "speak 
for"  the  person  accused. 

Now  Adora  knew  that  Sandy  was  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  and,  though  she  was  intelligent  far  beyond  the 
average  of  her  class  and  time,  yet  she  believed  (and  the 
fallacy  has  never  been  stamped  out  of  the  heart  feminine) 
that  all  officers  of  justice,  from  the  sheriff's  officer  to  the 
Red  Judge  who  rode  in  state  into  Drumfern  every  year, 
to  the  terror  of  the  evil  doer  and  the  praise  of  them  that 
do  well,  were  linked  together  in  the  bonds  of  the  closest 
Freemasonry.  So  that,  if  the  favour  of  one  could  once  be 
obtained,  he  had  only  to  wink  at  the  rest,  his  accomplices, 
as  it  were.  Upon  which,  all  was  well. 

So  it  came  about  that  Sandy  Ewan,  bringing  informa- 
tion of  all  that  (he  alleged)  was  being  done  to  obtain  the 
release  of  Strong  Mac  from  his  prison-house,  became 
a  not  infrequent  visitor  at  the  schoolhouse  among  the 
pines. 

Adora  tolerated  him,  and  as  for  Mr.  Gracie,  he  would 
shorten  the  school  hours  in  order  to  hasten  into  the  par- 
lour to  talk  with  Sandy  Ewan.  At  that  Adora  marvelled 
greatly.  For  there  was  in  the  new-made  laird  neither 


166  STRONG  MAC 

reading  nor  even  the  smallest  tincture  of  the  love  for 
letters.  Yet  there  was  no  manner  of  doubt  that  he  was 
acquiring  some  curious  power  over  the  Dominie.  Even 
when  Donald  Gracie  spoke  of  his  ex-pupil  his  hand 
would  tremble,  and  a  tremor  come  into  his  voice. 

For  the  second  time  Sandy  Ewan  underlay  the  spell  of 
Adora.  Her  very  scorns  attracted  him,  sated  as  he  was 
with  too  facile  triumphs.  She  had  refused  his  best  offers, 
when  he  had  thought  that  he  had  only  to  throw  the 
handkerchief.  But,  he  told  himself,  at  that  time  Strong 
Mac  was  in  his  way.  Therefore,  Strong  Mac  must  be  put 
out  of  the  way,  and  for  this  end  blond  Scot  and  dark 
aboriginal  Pict  made  a  plan  together  and  hid  it  deep. 

Sandy  Ewan  even  told  himself  that  Adora's  late  born 
forbearance  was  the  beginning  of  something  more  hope- 
ful. It  had  only  wanted  the  poacher's  son  laid  by  the 
heels.  And  then  the  girl's  father — Sandy  Ewan  laughed 
to  himself.  He  had  found  a  way  with  the  dotard — such 
an  easy  way,  and  every  one  knew  that  Adora  Gracie 
would  sell  her  soul  to  pleasure  the  Dominie. 

Once  again  Sandy  Ewan  deceived  himself.  He  was 
of  the  temperament  called  "sanguine"  which,  when  it 
turns  to  do  evil,  becomes  sanguine  also  as  to  the  rewards 
of  iniquity.  He  believed  that  Adora  Gracie,  separated 
from  Roy  McCulloch,  would  erelong  become  conscious  of 
the  advantages  of  being  the  wife  of  Alexander  Ewan, 
Esquire  of  Boreland  and  Ardinlass,  Justice  of  the  Peace 
on  his  Majesty's  commission  for  the  Stewartry  of  Kirk- 
cudbright. That,  he  told  himself,  was  surely  promotion 
high  enough  for  a  dominie's  daughter.  But  Sandy 
Ewan,  regarding  himself  as  a  most  desirable  type  of  the 
successful  man,  forgot  to  take  his  account  with  that  in 
the  heart  of  a  woman  which  follows  with  wistful  yearn- 
ing the  ill-used  and  unfortunate,  until,  all  unawares,  she 
may  find  her  own  heart  taken  in  the  bands  of  a  man. 
Not  that  Strong  Mac's  misfortunes  had  had  this  effect 
upon  Adora,  but  this  at  least  is  certain,  that  Sandy 
Ewan's  greatness,  his  blatant  desirability,  were  rather 


THE   DARK   COMPANION  167 

against  him  than  otherwise,  so  far  as  Adora  was  con- 
cerned. 

The  girl  had  not  yet  found  her  own  heart,  and  so 
scarce  believed  that  she  possessed  one.  She  was  like  a 
person  who  has  never  suffered  from  sea-sickness.  The 
evidence  was  too  strong  for  complete  disbelief  in  the 
existence  of  the  disease — but — she  was  of  opinion  that 
the  sufferers  could  help  it  if  they  liked! 

The  secret  of  Sandy  Ewan's  hold  over  the  Dominie  was 
simple.  It  consisted  of  a  little  brandy  flask  which 
arrived  at  the  schoolhouse  full  and  left  it  empty.  For, 
with  increasing  infirmity  of  body,  the  schoolmaster  could 
no  longer  find  his  way  to  Lucky  Greentree's  for  his  weekly 
supply,  and  till  now  no  one  had  dared  to  run  the  strict 
blockade  which  Adora  established  and  maintained. 

But  Sandy  Ewan,  at  first  under  the  guise  of  a  jest  at 
Adora's  expense,  conveyed  to  the  Dominie  almost  daily 
a  supply  of  the  raw  spirit  which  he  craved.  And  the 
old  man,  with  infinite  shame  in  his  heart,  acquiesced 
after  a  struggle,  and  then,  the  old  appetite  coming  back 
fourfold,  he  gave  himself  to  thinking  all  day,  from  his 
earliest  waking  moment,  of  the  farmer's  visit  in  the  after- 
noon. At  the  hour  when  Adora  was  setting  the  copies — 
the  first  taste  would  most  conveniently  transact  itself 
then!  She  did  not  come  in  often,  and  especially  not  if 
she  heard  Sandy  Ewan  with  her  father  in  the  parlour. 

There  was  little  strength  of  purpose  left  in  the  Dominie 
now.  Never  robust,  his  trials  and  excesses  had  worn 
him  to  a  shadow.  His  clothes  hung  flapping  about  him, 
like  a  flag  about  a  pole  on  a  windless  day.  Yet  as  his 
face  grew  more  worn  it  also  grew  more  childlike.  His 
mind,  too,  was  wistfully  clear,  for,  as  much  as  anything, 
it  was  the  torment  of  his  conscience,  that  had  worn  him 
down.  Yet  frail  as  he  was,  possessed  of  this  secret 
devil,  there  was  something  unconquered  and  perhaps 
unconquerable  about  Donald  Gracie.  The  ship  drifted 
on  the  rocks.  The  breakers  leaped  white  ahead,  but 
somehow,  even  in  spite  of  his  pitiful  physical  weakness, 


168  STRONG  MAC 

the  spirit  of  the  man  was  not  wholly  given  over  to  the 
devil. 

But  a  day  of  trial  was  at  hand.  The  great  and  solemn 
ordeal  of  the  Presbyterial  Examination  was  approach- 
ing. In  1812  there  was  little  of  that  machinery  of  edu- 
cation made  universal  in  later  times,  which  was  not  in 
every  Scottish  parish  already  a  thing  of  use  and  wont, 
familiar  for  generations.  In  the  rudest  northern  wild 
education  was  practically  compulsory — made  so  by  pub- 
lic opinion  and  the  Kirk  Session,  rooted  in  John  Knox 
and  the  centuries.  Only  a  few  such  waifs  and  strays  as 
Daid  the  Deil  were  able  to  escape,  and  they  only  partially. 
Indeed  they  usually  attended  school  of  their  own  accord, 
because  it  was  the  most  amusing  place  to  be  in.  Their 
fees,  such  as  they  were,  were  paid  by  the  Session  out  of 
the  parish  poor-box.  Thus  equipped,  with  a  long  start 
over  his  untaught  neighbours,  the  Scot  went  forth  to  pos- 
sess the  earth. 

No  government  inspector,  in  the  chill  far-removed 
pomp  of  an  Oxford  degree,  came  to  damn  with  faint 
praise  the  work  of  a  year.  But  instead,  far  more  awful, 
vaguely  connected  indeed  with  the  terrors  of  Sinai  and 
more  immediately  with  the  word-for-word  repetition  of 
the  Shorter  Catechism,  the  Presbytery,  ministers  from 
all  the  surrounding  parishes  to  the  number  of  a  dozen, 
duly  constituted  for  the  purpose,  came  together  to  ex- 
amine each  school  within  the  bounds. 

The  notice  of  the  coming  visitation  had  reached 
Lowran,  and  Adora,  conscious  that  there  might  arise 
some  objection  to  her  father  as  old  or  infirm,  or  perhaps 
fearing  also  the  whispers  as  to  his  failings,  laboured  all 
day  and  far  indeed  into  the  gloom  of  the  winter  after- 
noons to  bring  on  the  backward  children. 

It  was  to  her  that  most  of  the  labour  of  the  school  now 
fell.  Her  father  indeed  cared  for  little  but  his  few 
"Latiners,"  or  "humaners,"  as  they  were  popularly  called. 
He  would  keep  the  class  on  its  legs  for  hours  at  a  time, 
reading  his  favourite  authors  or  correcting  their  stumbling 


THE   DARK   COMPANION  169 

translations  with  gentle  patience.  It  was  with  the  utmost 
difficulty  that  his  daughter  could  get  him  to  take  another 
class,  and  then  he  was  only  persuaded  to  lay  aside  his 
favourites  because  some  of  the  elder  "humaners"  insisted 
upon  the  necessity  of  learning  something  else  besides 
Livy  and  Virgil,  in  order  to  measure  fields  and  hoe 
turnips. 

But  after  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  it  became  quite 
impossible  to  retain  the  Dominie's  wandering  attention. 
So  Adora  was  in  the  habit  of  sending  him  to  the  "ben" 
or  parlour  room  of  the  schoolhouse,  there  installing  him 
on  the  sofa  with  a  checked  plaid  over  his  feet,  and  so 
returning  to  her  classes.  When  at  last  she  came  in 
fagged  with  the  long  dull  wrestle  of  the  school,  the  close 
atmosphere,  and  that  steady  grit  of  discipline  which,  in 
the  long  run,  is  more  wearing  than  any  kind  of  labour  in 
the  world,  she  would  find  him  with  Sandy  Ewan,  a  little 
flushed  but  calmly  talking — and  munching  peppermint 
balls. 

"Ah,"  she  thought  as  she  went  out,  "that  is  one  more 
proof  how  changed  my  father  is.  He  takes  up  again  the 
habits  of  a  child." 

And  for  the  first  time  Adora  Gracie  felt  the  need  of 
some  one  to  speak  to — no,  not  Aline — some  one — she  did 
not  know  who — some  one  better  and  stronger  than  she 
herself.  For,  with  a  father  little  better  than  a  babe,  the 
girl  of  the  schoolhouse  was  indeed  alone  in  the  world. 
Her  lovers?  Marriage?  Yes,  of  course,  Adora  thought 
of  such  things.  But  somehow  that  was  not  what  she 
wanted  at  present.  One  steadfast,  plain-sailing  friend 
who  would  not  begin  to  talk  about  her  eyes  so  soon  as 
they  were  left  alone  together — was  there  any  such  on 
the  earth?  She  had  not  found  him,  at  all  events.  Even 
Strong  Mac  left  much  to  be  desired — though  certainly 
latterly — and  here  she  smiled.  Then  she  wondered  what 
had  come  over  the  boy.  And  all  suddenly  her  heart  smote 
her,  that  she  had  even  for  a  moment  forgotten  the  thing 
which  had  befallen  him. 


170  STRONG  MAC 

As  for  Sandy  Ewan,  Adora  was  more  than  ever  con- 
vinced that  he  had  been,  partially  at  least,  misjudged. 
With  herself  he  never  presumed  upon  his  favour  with  her 
father.  The  utmost  deference,  the  most  perfect  consid- 
eration, characterised  his  relations  with  the  schoolhouse. 
He  brought  the  latest  and  most  hopeful  news  of  Roy, 
together  with  little  presents  of  books  and  recent  maga- 
zines for  her  father — and  once,  at  least,  the  latest  number 
of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  but  never  anything  for  Adora. 
All  those  things  assured  the  girl  that  Muckle  Sandy 
Ewan  was  none  so  black  as  he  had  been  painted. 

So  passed  the  days  till  that  one  which  preceded  the 
Presbyterial  Examination.  In  the  afternoon  Adora,  rest- 
less under  the  long  strain  of  preparing  the  unruly  boys 
and  careless  girls  of  Lowran  to  meet  the  coming  ordeal, 
took  advantage  of  the  lengthening  days  to  walk  out  along 
the  lanes  to  Aline  McQuhirr's  cottage.  She  was  the 
more  inclined  to  this  that  Mr.  Latimer  had  sent  Jonathan 
Grier  to  say  that  he  would  call  and  see  her  father  that 
evening,  if  it  were  convenient.  Adora  had  no  present 
desire  to  meet  the  young  Laird  of  Lowran.  But  she 
recognised  that  he  was  honourably  keeping  to  the  letter 
of  his  engagement. 

At  the  cot  of  the  old  maid  with  the  silver-grey  hair 
she  found,  as  usual,  rest,  comprehension  and  low-toned 
drifts  of  converse.  Aline  was  a  haven  of  peace  to  a 
young  girl.  She  understood  without  questions  and  sym- 
pathised without  words.  The  time  sped  all  too  fast.  It 
was  six  o'clock  and  still  light  when  Adora  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  Gairie  cottage  bidding  the  old  maid  good- 
night. Aline  walked  a  hundred  yards  up  the  road  with 
her,  Adora's  arm  about  her  waist,  both  of  them,  as 
women  do  on  these  occasions,  regarding  the  road  at  their 
feet. 

"Good-night,  Aline!"  cried  Adora,  waving  her  hand 
with  the  quaint  upward  ripple  of  her  fingers  which  was 
natural  to  her  in  saying  adieu,  "I  will  look  over  to  the 
back  bench  for  you  to-morrow,  and  it  will  be  a  comfort 


THE   DARK   COMPANION  171 

to  see  you  there.  You  will  know  that  I  am  thinking  of 
you/' 

She  kept  looking  back,  to  see  the  gentle  old  maid  smil- 
ing pensively  Madonna-wise  at  her  from  the  turn  of  the 
road.  Then  with  a  certain  throb  of  self-reproach  that 
she  had  been  so  long  without  thinking  of  Roy  in  his 
prison,  she  remembered  that  Sidney  Latimer  would 
about  that  time  be  taking  leave  of  her  father.  At  this 
she  smiled,  not  without  a  certain  malice  at  the  disappoint- 
ment which  she  knew  would  sadden  the  brown  eyes. 
She  was  grieved  for  Strong  Mac.  Nothing  (save  one 
thing)  in  all  her  life  had  ever  given  her  such  pain,  but 
— it  is  too  much  to  ask  of  nineteen  that  it  should  be  con- 
tinuously sorry  for  long  together.  That  is  reserved  for 
the  old. 

Then,  without  a  warning,  without  a  moment  to  be- 
think herself,  Adora  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
Sandy  Ewan.  He  saluted  her  courteously,  as  he  stepped 
out  of  a  thicket  by  the  wayside.  There  was  a  brightness 
about  his  eyes  that  lighted  up  his  heavy  face.  But  the 
underlip  protruded  more  than  ever  with  the  obstinacy  of 
a  balking  horse,  and  his  eyes  had  a  hardness  in  them 
which  would  have  put  a  less  suspicious  person  than 
Adora  Gracie  on  her  guard. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Adora  gave  him  hers,  mechani- 
cally. She  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  suddenness 
of  his  appearance.  He  held  it  longer  than  he  had  ever 
ventured  to  do  before,  and  Adora,  waiting  for  an  expla- 
nation of  his  presence,  for  a  moment  forgot  to  reclaim  it. 
For  which  omission  she  afterwards  blamed  herself. 
Sandy  Ewan  turned  to  walk  back  with  her  towards  the 
village. 

"I  called  at  the  schoolhouse  on  my  way/'  he  began 
hurriedly,  for  Adora  had  drawn  away  her  hand,  "but  I 
found  that — that  insolent  hound  Latimer  there,  who 
would  scarcely  look  at  me.  So  to  keep  from  breaking  his 
neck,  and  because  your  father  told  me  where  you  had 
gone,  I  came  to  see  you  home !" 


172  STRONG  MAC 

"I  am  obliged/'  said  Adora,  coldly,  "but  you  made 
two  mistakes.  I  did  not  need  any  one  to  meet  me,  and 
Mr.  Latimer  is  not  an  insolent  hound.  He  is  a  gentle- 
man, both  in  deed — and  in  word !" 

Adora  felt  the  stiffness  of  this  speech,  but  she  thought 
the  feathered  arrow  at  the  end  might  hit  its  mark.  How- 
ever, she  did  not  know  Sandy  Ewan.  He  was  far  too 
much  wrapt  in  his  own  self-conceit  to  feel  the  girl's 
irony.  He  only  laughed  a  little  in  a  self-satisfied  way. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "then  you  have  changed  your  mind 
about  him  also !" 

"I  am  far  from  understanding  what  you  mean!"  said 
Adora. 

"The  folk  are  saying  in  the  parish  that  once  upon  a 
time  you  forbade  him  your  father's  house!" 

"I  did  not — "  began  the  girl.  At  the  sound  of  the 
words  of  denial  she  stopped.  Then  hastily  regaining  her 
composure,  she  added,  "or  if  I  did,  it  was  no  more  than 
I  have  said  to  others  who  have  not  his  excuse !" 

"And  what  might  his  excuse  be?"  said  Sandy  Ewan, 
scornfully. 

"That  he  lives  all  alone  in  a  great  house  with  two  old 
women !" 

"One  of  them  his  mother,"  said  Sandy,  laughing. 
"You  forget — I  also  am  an  orphan,  yet  you  have  no  pity 
for  me." 

"It  were  better  that  you  would  take  pity  on  yourself — 
and  on  others,  Alexander  Ewan,  if  all  tales  be  true!" 
said  Adora,  sharply. 

For  in  1812  it  was  permitted  to  young  persons  to 
know  more  than  they  are  supposed  to  be  familiar  with  in 
these  later  decades.  Sandy  Ewan  and  his  deeds  were  not 
of  an  odour  fragrant  in  the  nostrils  of  his  countrywomen. 
He  did  not  come  into  Aline's  door,  and  it  was  only 
Adora's  consideration  for  her  father,  together  with  her 
own  careless  confidence  and  self-reliance,  that  permitted 
him  the  entry  of  the  schoolhouse. 

"Ah,"  said  Muckle  Sandy,  mournfully,  "I  am  not  the 


THE   DARK   COMPANION  173 

only  innocent  person  who  has  been  maligned.  Evil 
tongues  are  many.  And  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  Mis- 
tress Adora,  I  cannot  call  to  mind  that  I  have  acted  or 
spoken  otherwise  than  as  every  man  has  a  right  to  do  who 
truly  loves  a  woman!" 

A  little  thrill  of  compunction  came  over  the  girl.  It 
was  true — she  knew  it  by  experience — there  were  many 
evil  speakers.  Perhaps  she  had  believed  too  hastily.  She 
reached  out  her  hand. 

"I  am  sorry !"  she  said. 

Sandy  Ewan,  being  crass  after  his  kind,  took  this  for 
encouragement,  and  at  once  plunged  blindly  forward. 

" Adora/'  he  said,  "I  cannot  live  without  you.  I  tell 
you  again  I  have  tried  and  I  cannot.  I  never  thought  to 
crave  on  any  woman,"  he  added,  "or  to  offer  twice  what 
many  would  be  proud  to  have  one  chance  of — !" 

"Sandy  Ewan,"  interrupted  Adora,  "I  have  already 
answered  you  once.  What  is  the  use  of  giving  us  both 
all  the  pain  over  again.  You  asked  me  to  marry  you.  I 
told  you  plainly  that  I  never  could — " 

"But  you  told  me,  too,  that  you  did  not  love  any  other 
man!" 

"You  asked  the  question  which  always  deserves  an 
honest  answer  from  every  woman.  I  told  you  as  kindly 
as  I  was  able,  that  it  could  never  be — " 

"But  you  would  not  tell  me  why,"  urged  Sandy  Ewan, 
endeavouring  to  take  the  girl's  hand.  "What  is  your  ob- 
jection to  me?  What  is  the  fault?  Speak  out.  I  can 
amend  as  well  as  any — " 

"It  is  better  not  to  call  names,"  said  Adora,  quite 
gently,  "else  perhaps  this  time  I  might  have  to  answer 
you  unkindly — which,  since  you  have  been  so  patient 
with  my  father,  I  should  be  very  loath  to  do !" 

"Is  not  that  in  itself  a  reason,"  he  persisted,  with  a 
sudden  access  of  confidence,  "a  reason  why  you  should 
marry  me,  Dora?  I  have  your  father's  good-will — per- 
haps more  than  that.  He  wishes  what  I  wish.  I  cannot 
then  be  so  bad — so  unworthy.  He  needs  someone  to 


174  STRONG  MAC 

look  after  him — someone  not  a  girl.  I  could  give  both  of 
you  a  good  home  and  many  comforts.  I  could  insure 
your  father's  happiness,  and  give  my  life  to  satisfy  your 
every  wish.  Will  you  not  think  of  it,  Dora  ?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head  sadly.  For  once  it  appeared 
to  her  that  Sandy  Ewan  was  sincere.  He  loved  Adora 
Gracie,  and  he  pled  his  cause  according  to  his  nature  with 
what  of  eloquence  was  in  him.  He  had  these  things  to 
give,  and  what  he  said  was  true.  Many  a  woman  of  far 
higher  rank  than  a  village  dominie's  daughter  would 
have  been  glad  to  share  her  lot  with  the  young  Laird  of 
Boreland. 

"I  am  more  than  sorry,"  she  said,  gently,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  "but  I  cannot  love  you.  Perhaps  I  am 
not  made  for  love.  You  spoke  of  Roy  McCulloch,  but 
he  is  not  the  obstacle  to  what  you  wish — the  obstacle  is 
that  I  would  rather  work  in  your  fields  for  a  day's  wage 
than  marry  a  man  I  do  not  love.  And  I  can  never  love 
you,  Sandy!" 

It  was  well  and  gently  said,  but  the  spirit  of  it  was  lost 
upon  the  man  before  her.  In  an  instant  the  tiger  nature 
flared  up  within  him.  He  flung  off  the  appeal  of  her 
hand  with  brutal  impatience. 

"That — and  worse  than  that  is  what  you  will  come 
to !"  he  cried.  "I  shall  live  to  see  it.  Aye,  perhaps  sooner 
than  you  think — I  shall  see  you  flung  to  the  door,  as  the 
dirt  beneath  my  feet.  I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you,  now 
or  ever.  But  look  to  yourself,  Mistress  Gracie — you 
have  spurned  me,  slighted  me  for  a  poacher  and  a  sheep- 
stealer  that  shall  yet  hang  on  the  scaffold.  Say  what  you 
like,  Roy  McCulloch  is  the  reason.  So  look  to  yourself, 
madam.  Alexander  Ewan  has  a  long  arm.  And  let  me 
tell  you,  he  will  strike  you  in  the  place  where  you  will 
feel  it  most,  and  make  you  so  that  you  will  never  wish 
to  lift  up  your  head  in  the  world  more!" 

And  leaving  these  words  behind  him  as  a  farewell,  he 
leaped  over  the  dyke  and  disappeared  with  swift  strides 
into  the  Lowran  woods. 


'  '  I    SHALL  SEE  YOU    FLUNG   TO  THE   DOOR,   AS   THE   DIRT 
BENEATH  MY  FEET.'  " 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

AN  HIGH  DAY  IN  LOWRAN. 

THE  morn  of  the  great  day  dawned  calm  and  clear. 
The  mothers  of  all  Lowran  hurried  over  their  own  matuti- 
nal use-and-wont,  that  they  might  wash  and  brush  and 
deck  the  children  whom  Providence  and  their  experience 
of  the  married  state  had  provided  them  with.  By  eight 
o'clock  the  entire  population  under  the  age  of  twelve 
presented  to  the  casual  eye  a  red  and  scurfy  appearance, 
the  effect  of  vigorous  maternal  handling  of  the  coarse 
roller-towel  which  hung  behind  every  kitchen  door.  On 
all  other  days  of  the  year  the  forth-going  scholars  of 
Dominie  Gracie  were  permitted  to  do  their  own  washing, 
only  in  very  particular  cases  having  to  undergo  a  mater- 
nal inspection,  more  or  less  cursory,  according  to  the 
work  in  hand.  But  this  one  morning  the  axe  was  laid  to 
the  root  of  the  tree.  Nothing  was  left  to  the  imagination. 
Male  and  female  after  its  kind  the  youth  of  Lowran  was 
not  only  washed — it  was  scoured ! 

Nevertheless,  in  the  bosoms  of  the  scholars  abode 
abounding  bliss.  The  booby  was  as  happy  as  the  dux. 
The  gay  ribbons  of  the  girls,  the  tight  breeches  of  the 
boys,  proclaimed  holiday  even  more  than  the  week's  ces- 
sation of  school,  which  (by  some  law  of  the  Mede  and  the 
Persian)  was  the  reward  of  a  well-sustained  examina- 
tion. The  feeling  of  Sunday  clothes  upon  a  day  not 
Sunday  turned  the  most  blase  heart  topsy-turvy.  In  shy 
potato  patches  at  the  back  of  dykes,  round  the  back  of  the 
schoolhouse,  where  one  could  not  be  seen  from  the  win- 
dows of  Lowran,  little  groups  of  boys  were  busy  practis- 


176  STRONG  MAC 

ing  jumping.  It  is  a  doubtful  pleasure  and  unthankful  to 
jump  in  tight  boots.  You  cannot  jump  nearly  as  far  as 
on  ordinary  occasions.  But — it  felt  so  exactly  like  Sab- 
bath-breaking and  blasphemy  as  to  send  thrills  of  delight 
through  every  boyish  bosom. 

Still  further  afield  the  seniors  of  the  school,  early  at- 
tired without  domestic  interference,  made  their  peculiar 
arrangements.  For  them  it  was  the  Day-Without-Preju- 
dice.  If  on  any  other  day  in  the  year  a  boy  of  Lowran 
school  was  known  to  go  for  a  walk  with  a  girl  thereof,  he 
had,  ipso  facto,  committed  the  unpardonable  sin.  He 
was  hooted  at,  jeered  at,  made  fair  and  unfair  game  of 
as  a  patent  disgrace  to  the  community.  Such  was  the 
boy's  fate.  As  for  the  girl,  it  wa3  understood  (Adora 
Gracie  being  excepted)  that  she  was  a  poor  thing,  ever 
ready  to  pick  up  whatever  orts  might  fall  from  any  table 
masculine. 

Of  course,  as  above  noted,  Adora  was  different;  so 
much  was  admitted  on  all  sides.  In  fact,  she  could  hardly 
be  called  a  mere  girl.  Why,  she  would  give  the  biggest 
boy  in  the  school  a  "ring"  on  the  side  of  the  head  as  soon 
as  look  at  him.  For  thus  did  she  uphold  the  dignity  of 
her  sex,  and  all  womankind  was  in  a  way  accounted 
blessed  because  of  her.  At  least,  a  certain  possible 
utility  came  to  be  admitted  on  their  account. 

The  "examination  walk"  was  arranged  to  take  place 
during  certain  hours  when  the  assembled  presbytery  was 
employed  in  torturing  the  junior  classes.  At  this  time 
the  seniors  of  both  sexes  were  left  to  the  freedom  of  their 
own  wills.  And  their  will  it  was  to  take  a  walk.  Half 
a  mile  out  of  the  village  the  boys  made  up  on  the  girls,  all 
strolling  and  endeavouring  vainly  to  look  unconscious. 
Every  Jack  went  straight  to  the  Jill  of  his  previous 
arrangement,  took  her  hand,  and  set  off  with  her  through 
lanes  and  byepaths  till  there  was  presented  to  them  a 
spot  sufficiently  retired  for  the  joint  consumption  of  the 
statutory  stick  of  yellow  toffy.  The  swain  extracted  it 
out  of  his  trouser  pocket  for  the  purpose.  This  idyll  was 


AN  HIGH   DAY   IN   LOWRAN  177 

held  to  constitute  a  solemn  bond  for  the  same  day  next 
year,  but  the  validity  of  the  vow  was  broken  by  the  least 
intermediate  reference  to  it  on  either  side.  If  Jack  en- 
countered Jill  in  the  playground  next  day,  he  must  of 
necessity  put  out  his  tongue  at  her,  or  even  fling  a  stone  at 
her.  Etiquette  so  compelled  him,  and  none  was  strong 
enough  to  break  it.  Sometimes,  though  not  often,  these 
days  of  irregular  Valentine-choosing  overcarried  the  years 
and  ended  in  a  but-and-ben  together,  from  which  in  due 
time  other  bairns  went  forth  to  suck  "gundy"  at  dyke- 
backs  with  the  Chosen  of  the  Heart.  At  any  rate,  the 
function  was  a  high  mystery,  strictly  confined  to  the 
senior  classes,  not  to  be  spoken  of  on  the  morrow  even 
to  the  temporary  Nearest-and-Dearest,  not  to  be  made  a 
subject  of  ridicule,  and,  in  fact,  to  be  emerged  from  with- 
out prejudice  on  either  side. 

Consequently  the  excitement  of  being  chosen  caused  all 
the  senior  girls  to  look  forward  to  examination  time 
from  afar,  and  as  each  Presbytery  Day  drew  near  Char- 
lotte Webster  regretted  that  she  was  no  more  a  scholar  at 
Lowran  school.  She  even  began  to  question  within  her- 
self whether  a  knowledge  of  Latin  and  algebra  were  not 
necessary  to  complete  the  education  of  every  well-bred 
young  woman  of  twenty. 

And  the  presbytery?  A  great  mystery  abides  in  the 
word  as  well  as  in  the  thing.  Why  the  mere  fact  of  sit- 
ting in  a  chamber  apart  and  calling  one  man  "Modera- 
tor" and  another  "Clerk"  should  transform  a  score  or  so 
of  honest  friendly  gentlemen  into  a  set  of  carping,  jeal- 
ously-inclined fault-finders,  the  joy  of  the  scoffer  and  a 
terror  to  every  peaceable  lay  Christian,  has  never  yet 
been  made  out.  And,  mark  you,  this  demoniac  posses- 
sion only  lasts  so  long  as  the  actual  official  "sederunt" 
continues. 

As  the  ministerial  gigs  arrived  in  Lowran,  they  dis- 
gorged, as  a  general  rule,  two  worthy  gentlemen,  grow- 
ing a  little  portly  indeed  (for  teinds  were  teinds  in  those 
years)  who  stood  in  the  yard  of  Lucky  Greentree's 


178  STRONG  MAC 

change-house  talking  amiably  with  their  fellows.  To 
appearance  wrath  and  war  were  not  in  all  their  thoughts. 
The  jest  clerical,  a  rare  vintage  which  does  not  bear 
transportation,  circulated  freely  till  every  countenance 
broadened  and  shone. 

Yet  no  sooner  were  these  same  men  "constituted"  for 
the  transaction  of  private  business  in  Dr.  Meiklewham's 
study,  than  lo!  they  were  at  each  others'  throats.  It 
could  not  be  the  influence  of  this  place  of  meeting.  Any- 
thing more  peaceable  than  Cyrus  Meiklewham's  library 
could  not  well  be  imagined.  The  fathers  of  the  church 
stood  all  about  in  the  original  Greek.  Somnolence  was 
in  their  vellum  backs.  Their  sides  were  embossed  like 
targes.  Their  leaves  dwelt  unstirred  for  generations. 
Even  more  recent  controversialists  slumbered  peaceably 
together.  The  same  dust  covered  Calvin  and  Turretin, 
Law  and  Hoadly,  Bluidy  Mackenzie  and  the  pamphlets 
of  Shields  and  McWard. 

Yet  not  even  at  Geneva  in  the  high  days  was  "priest" 
ever  writ  more  large  than  in  the  minister  of  Lowran's 
study,  and  upon  the  assembled  presbyters  of  the  eccle- 
siastical tribunal  of  St.  Cuthbertstown.  Nor  was  the 
particular  subject  of  their  deliberations  to  blame  for  the 
sounds  of  war  that  arose.  The  presbytery  of  St.  Cuth- 
bertstown could  disagree  about  anything — the  time  of  a 
pastoral  "veesitation,"  the  wording  of  a  phrase  in  the  min- 
utes, the  date  of  a  "Thanksgiving  Day"  for  the  purpose  of 
calling  the  attention  of  the  Almighty  to  the  merits  of 
H.  R.  H.  the  Prince  Regent  and  "the  recent  marvellous 
successes  which  has  attended  our  arms  both  by  land  and 
sea."  The  mere  raw  material  of  a  battle  did  not  matter. 
The  fight  was  the  thing. 

For  instance,  no  quieter  man  ever  droned  a  sermon 
than  Mr.  Gilbert  Leng,  minister  of  the  metropresbyterial 
charge  of  St.  Cuthbertstown.  His  own  congregation  had 
slept  under  him  for  twenty  years  with  comfort  and  profit. 
But  in  the  presbytery,  as  soon  as  the  last  words  of  the 
Moderator's  opening  prayer  were  out  of  his  mouth,  the 


AN  HIGH   DAY   IN   LOWRAN  179 

hair  on  the  head  of  the  minister  of  St.  Cuthbertstown 
began  to  stand  erect  upon  his  head.  His  eyes  sparkled 
as  he  recalled  a  grievance  and  lo!  in  a  moment  he  had 
launched  himself  at  his  brethren. 

Sober,  kindly,  unimaginative,  undiligent,  easily  influ- 
enced, Dr.  Cyrus  Meiklewham  (who  had  been  made  a 
D.D.  long  ago  by  an  ancient  university  because  his 
father,  an  eminent  townsman,  kept  pestering  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Divinity  about  the  matter,  spoiling  his  driving 
upon  the  golf  links)  had  a  difficult  team  to  control  that 
high  day  in  early  summer  when  chairs  were  brought 
from  all  over  the  house,  even  from  the  confines  of  the 
back  kitchen,  to  seat  the  brethren  of  the  court.  Mean- 
while Hope  Meiklewham  took  her  afternoon  meal  as  she 
sat  dangling  her  legs  over  the  edge  of  the  kitchen  table 
and,  somewhat  imaginatively,  enlightened  Bet  Conchar, 
the  manse  lass,  as  to  the  peculiarities  of  ministers. 

"Save  us,  Mistress  Howp,"  cried  Bet  with  her  hands 
held  up  in  horror,  "and  do  ye  really  mean  to  tell  me  that 
Maister  Kidston  o'  Da'beattie  went  sae  far  as  to  raise  his 
wife  oot  o'  her  warm  bed  at  three  in  the  mornin'  to  hear 
him  deliver  a'  ower  again  his  speech  at  the  Assembly?" 

"Yes,  that  he  did/'  asseverated  the  young  romancer, 
watching  the  firelight  glittering  on  her  silver  shoe 
buckles,  "and  nothing  would  content  him  but  that  Mrs. 
Kidston  must  put  on  her  best  black  silk  and  her  bead 
cap,  and  sit  on  the  sofa  with  her  hands  reverently  folded 
— at  three  on  a  frosty  morning !" 

"For  me,  I  wad  hae  seen  him — weel,  in  a  warmer  bit 
first !"  said  Bet,  with  unction. 

Thus  emboldened,  Hope  Meiklewham  took  a  bolder 
flight. 

"And  he  stamped  on  the  floor  with  his  umbrella,  just 
as  he  had  done  in  Edinburgh.  And  whiles  he  even  called 
her  "Moderator!" 

"By  my  faith  as  an  innocent  woman,  but  I  wad  hae 
moderated  him,"  said  Bess,  fingering  the  rolling  pin 
affectionately  as  she  spoke. 


i8o  STRONG  MAC 

She  inclined  her  ear  to  the  noise  upstairs  from  the 
doctor's  study.  It  came  in  fitful  gusts  like  a  Hogmanay 
wind  blowing  up  out  of  the  pit  of  Solway. 

"They're  at  it!"  said  Hope,  solemnly,  "I  am  none  so 
sure  but  what  they  will  brain  my  father !  He's  clerk,  ye 
ken,  and  if  anything  goes  wrong,  they  blame  him  for  it. 
He  gets  twenty  pounds  in  the  year  for  that !" 

"What?"  cried  Bet  Conchar,  to  whom  Doctor  Meikle- 
wham  was  as  a  god — "but  ye  are  jokin',  Mistress  Howp. 
Gin  I  thocht  they  wad  lay  finger  on  the  maister — fegs  I 
wad  gang  up  amang  them  wi'  this  (indicating  the  roll- 
ing pin)  and  gar  their  harns  splatter  on  the  wa'!" 

Presently  the  tumult  stilled  itself  for  a  moment  and 
Bet  drew  a  long  breath.  She  was  preparing  the  dinner 
— the  great  Presbyterial  dinner  to  be  partaken  of  in  the 
manse  after  the  examination  was  completed  at  the  school- 
house.  Hope  was  busy  peeling  potatoes  and  encourag- 
ing Bet  Conchar  with  tales  of  how  much  each  minister 
could  eat. 

"There's  Blayne  of  Crooked  Yetts,"  she  said,  vera- 
ciously,  "he  has  eighteen  of  a  family,  and  the  poor  man 
hardly  ever  gets  a  bite  for  himself.  For,  of  course,  he  has 
to  carve  for  the  lot — cut  up  the  meat,  that  is — and  long 
before  he  has  Number  Eighteen's  plate  filled,  Numbers 
One,  Two  and  Three  up  to  Ten  are  backing  in  their  carts 
for  more.  They  say  it's  a  good  dozen  years  since  he  tasted 
flesh  meat  in  his  own  house.  And  that  makes  him  fear- 
ful hungersome  when  he  takes  his  dinner  from  home." 

"Miss  Howp,"  cried  Bet,  "d'ye  think  I  hae  eneuch  in 
the  hoose  to  serve  them?  If  there  shouldna  be,  what  a 
shame  an'  disgrace  to  the  manse  o'  Lowran — and  the 
Laird  himsel'  comin'  as  weel !" 

"Oh,  him!"  said  Hope  Meiklewham,  "that  signifies 
little !  He's  in  love,  and  folk  in  love  never  have  big  appe- 
tites." 

"Fegs,  an'  that's  as  true  a  word  as  ever  ye  spak',  Miss 
Howp !  For  I  mind  me  when  my  ain  brither  Bauldy  was 
in  love  wi'  Babbie  Mulfeather  up  at  the  Tippenny,  he 


AN  HIGH  DAY   IN   LOWRAN  181 

had  hardly  care  to  pick  a  bite.  And,  faith,  after  he  had 
been  marriet  a  year  or  twa,  what  wi'  weans  an'  sic'  like 
truck,  deil  a  bite  was  there  for  him  to  pick !" 

The  girl  threw  a  potato  peeling  over  her  head  and 
laughed  at  Bauldy. 

"And  what's  a  Moderator,  Miss  Howp?"  the  manse 
lass  went  on,  after  a  pause  to  hang  a  broth  pot  one  link 
higher  over  the  fire. 

"Oh,"  said  the  truthful  Hope,  "it's  just  one  of  them- 
selves that  they  put  in  a  chair  for  the  rest  to  rage  at!" 

"And  what  for  does  he  let  them?" 

"Because,"  replied  the  ready  Hope,  "it's  his  turn,  ye 
see— like  Blind  Man's  Buff  or  Cross  Tig !" 

"And  wha's  Moderator  the  day?"  asked  Bet,  who  was 
always  interested  about  ministers.  It  was  the  first  time 
the  presbytery  had  visited  Lowran  in  her  reign. 

"It's  wee  Amos  Peerie  from  Beeswing,"  said  Hope, 
"and  that's  the  reason  they  are  raging  like  young  bulls 
in  cleg-time!  If  it  had  been  Baillie  of  Hardhills,  they 
would  have  been  as  quiet  as  mice  when  pussy  is  at  the 
hole  mouth." 

"What,"  cried  Bet,  "yon  muckle  reid-faced  man,  wi' 
the  voice  that  wad  cry,  'Hurley'  to  a  coo  on  the  tap  o' 
Criffel — him  that  askit  for  a  glass  o'  brandy  afore  he 
preached  at  the  Niffertoon  Communion?" 

"The  same,"  said  Hope;  "it  was  his  wife  that  pulled 
all  the  leaves  off  her  gooseberry  bushes  to  keep  the  cater- 
pillars from  eating  the  berries.  But  after  her  trouble 
she  got  none,  for  they  all  withered  in  the  sun  and  fell  off." 

"Heard  ye  ever  the  like  o'  that?"  cried  the  maid.  "It 
surely  doesna  tak'  a  heap  o'  sense  to  be  a  minister's  wife. 
I  ken  better  nor  that  mysel',  an'  I  dinna  set  up  for  bein' 
ocht  oot  o'  the  common,  either!" 

Hope  Meiklewham  continued  her  delusive  catalogue. 

"And  there's  Colvin  of  Sprose  that  preaches  in  black 
gloves  and  used  aye  to  put  them  on  in  the  pulpit  to  show 
how  daintily  he  could  fit  on  the  finger  tips,  till  one  day 
his  son  Chairlie  half-drowned  some  wasps  in  treacle-ale, 


182  STRONG  MAC 

and  left  them  to  come  to  themselves  in  his  father's 
preaching  gloves — " 

"Oh,  the  misleart  vaigabond!"  cried  Bet  Conchar,  "I 
howp  his  faither  warmed  him  for  that !" 

"And  then  there's  Peter  Grewlie  of  Rerwick  that 
preaches  other  folks'  sermons  for  his  own — " 

"Hoo  do  they  ken  that?"  demanded  Bet,  who  had  a 
weakness  for  the  cloth,  and  did  not  like  to  hear  it  evil 
spoken  of. 

"Because  the  sermons  are  that  dreadful  deep,  and  on 
Monday  he  can't  even  remember  the  heads  and  particu- 
lars— whiles  not  even  the  text !" 

"Losh !"  said  Bet,  "I  wad  never  have  thought  on  that ! 
There  maun  be  awsome  clever  folk  in  his  pairish." 

"And  there's  Cummunion  Taggart,  that  gangs  to  so 
many  Sacraments  that  he  has  not  been  seen  in  his  own 
pairish  except  at  pig-killing  time  for  twenty  years !" 

"That'll  do,  Miss  Howp !  and  dinna  eat  a'  the  bakin' 
apples!''  said  Bet  Conchar,  the  limit  of  whose  credulity 
had  at  last  been  reached. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

COUNTER-STROKE   TREACHEROUS. 

IN  the  school  of  Lowran  there  was  a  waiting  hush — a 
perfect  ache  of  well-dressed  silence.  The  only  sound 
was  the  uneasy  scuffling  among  the  boys  produced  by  the 
effort  of  sitting  still  in  unaccustomed  Sunday  clothes. 
The  girls  on  the  other  hand  fairly  beamed  and  bloomed. 
So  much  so  that  Daid  the  Deil,  now  grown  one  of  the 
seniors  of  the  school  and  clad  in  a  cast-off  coat  of  Strong 
Mac's,  which  fitted  him  like  a  blanket,  confided  to  a 
neighbour,  "Lord,  Jock,  look  at  Ag  Grier  an'  May  Bryd- 
son,  ye  wad  never  think  to  look  at  them,  that  we  threw 
them  baith  i'  the  mill-lade  yestreen  for  stealin'  oor  bools 
(marbles).  I  declare  they  are  like  paycocks  an'  cherry- 
feems !" 

"Cherybims,  ye  stookie!"  said  Dan  Sorby,  his  better- 
informed  neighbour.  "Ag  Grier's  precious  little  like  a 
cherybim — na,  nor  a  seryphim  either.  She's  ower  fat! 
Gin  she  had  wings  the  size  o'  a  barn  door,  they  wad 
never  flap  her  up  to  the  riggin'  o'  oor  byre — let  alane  to 
heeven!" 

But  the  awful  moment  came  at  last  when  the  Presby- 
tery were  to  enter.  They  shook  hands — oh,  how  conde- 
scendingly, with  the  Dominie,  who  welcomed  them  at  the 
door.  Some  of  the  younger  presently  glanced  across  at 
Adora,  of  whose  reputation  for  beauty  and  wit  they  had 
heard  and  resolved  to  be  present  at  the  examination  of 
the  junior  classes. 

To  most  of  the  children  the  Presbyterian  Examination 
Day  was  one  of  mingled  fear  and  elation.  They  must 


184  STRONG  MAC 

read  and  cypher  and  repeat  the  Catechism  in  the  presence 
of  those  twelve  august  black-coated  men,  of  whom  they 
only  saw  a  single  one  all  the  rest  of  the  year — and  he 
even,  apparent  to  them  mostly  on  Sundays,  speaking  in- 
comprehensible things  and  giving  out  recondite  passages 
of  Scripture,  which  they  had  to  find  in  haste  lest  the 
lightnings  of  Sinai  should  blast  the  laggard. 

To  Adora  the  occasion  was  one  of  fear  only,  not  lest 
the  fire  should  try  her  own  work  of  what  sort  it  was,  but 
— for  a  reason  which  we  know  very  well. 

As  for  the  Presbytery,  the  members  thereof  doubtless 
felt  within  them  the  pride  of  place,  as  they  sat  and 
listened  to  loud  "gollering"  Baillie  of  Hardhills  putting 
the  questions — which  he  did  till  it  came  to  the  classics, 
when,  feeling  a  little  husky,  he  surrendered  his  part  to 
the  quiet  little  Moderator,  who  was  a  classical  scholar, 
and  cooed  over  the  "humaners"  as  if  he  loved  them — 
which  indeed  he  did.  It  was  Strong  Mac  who  in  his 
time  had  found  out  the  "way  to  work  Wee  Peerie,"  which 
had  since  become  a  tradition  in  the  school.  This  was  the 
way  of  an  examinee  with  Peerie  the  Small : — Whenever 
a  question  was  asked  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the 
class,  it  was  the  duty  of  the  boy  who  had  been  last  under 
fire  to  interrupt  with  a  request  for  explanation  based 
upon  the  portion  just  traversed.  As  thus — "If  ye  please, 
sir,  what  did  ye  say  was  the  richt  meanin'  o'  that  last 
word?" 

All  then  made  ready  to  take  notes  with  their  pencils 
of  the  wisdom  about  to  fall  from  Wee  Peerie's  lips.  And 
before  the  postponed  "puzzler"  was  reached  it  had  been 
solved  by  reference  to  the  class  lexicon,  or,  more  simply, 
by  telegraph  through  the  girls'  benches  at  the  end  of 
which  sat  Adora.  Or,  most  probably,  Wee  Peerie  had 
forgotten  all  about  it,  and  once  more  the  country  was 
saved. 

Still  on  the  whole,  though  many  of  the  ministers  were 
almost  entirely  silent,  leaving  the  actual  examination  to  a 
few  of  the  old  practised  hands,  the  Presbytery  greatly  en- 


COUNTER-STROKE    TREACHEROUS       185 

joyed  these  days.  There  was  the  appetising  wrangle  at  the 
"private  meeting,"  the  long  sunning  in  their  own  gran- 
deur before  the  eyes  of  the  assembled  parentage  of 
Lowran,  the  quiet  refreshful  jest  between  times,  above 
all,  the  jovial  dinner  at  the  close,  after  the  Dominie  had 
been  complimented  and  sped  upon  his  way  for  another 
year. 

As  for  Donald  Gracie,  he  had  doubtless  strange 
thoughts  in  his  soul.  None  knew  better  than  the  Domi- 
nie that  he  was  growing  past  his  work — that  of  a 
truth,  he  did  not  do  it.  His  daughter  alone  kept  him 
from  being  found  out.  Save  in  the  "humaner"  classes, 
there  was  indeed  no  work  of  his  to  be  examined  that  day. 
Baillie  of  Hardhills  even  hinted  to  him  that  it  was  time 
to  be  setting  his  staff  in  the  chimney  corner  and  bethink- 
ing him  of  his  latter  end.  Donald  Gracie  knew  well 
what  that  meant.  Had  not  Baillie  a  nephew,  a  certain 
"stickit  minister,"  who  would  be  glad  to  succeed  to  the 
comfortable  parochial  emoluments  of  Lowran?  Further- 
more, it  was  well  known  that  Baillie  of  Hardhills  could  do 
anything  with  good  easy  Dr.  Meiklewham,  the  parish 
minister  of  Lowran.  Was  it  this  reflection  which  made 
the  old  man  sit  so  silent  and  distrait  in  his  little  desk 
while  the  Presbytery  (an  appalling  circle  of  black  silk 
stockings  and  silver-buckled  shoes,  as  seen  by  the  infant 
classes)  listened  with  such  apparent  intentness  to  the 
recitations  of  the  seniors  ? 

Something  of  the  kind  was  certainly  present  in  Donald 
Grade's  mind,  but  more  persistent  still  was  the  thought 
that  he  might  be  unable  to  see  Sandy  Ewan  that  day — 
in  private,  that  is.  For  the  visit  of  his  formerly  despised 
scholar  had,  sadly  enough,  grown  necessary  to  him. 
Why  was  Adora  so  hard?  Had  he  ever  transgressed  or 
broken  his  word — since,  that  is,  the  time  when  he  had 
made  that  solemn  promise  on  his  knees?  There  was* 
surely  a  medium  between  ....  that  which  had  been 
and  depriving  an  old  frail  man  of  what  was  as  necessary 
to  him  as  his  life !  How  much  better  a  man  could  under- 


i86  STRONG  MAC 

stand  these  things !  Ah,  yes,  there  were  many  who  spoke 
against  the  young  farmer  of  Boreland.  Adora  herself 
did  not  wish  to  hear  his  name — but  what  a  friend  had  not 
Alexander  Ewan  been  to  him  during  these  last  months !" 

Ah,  what  a  friend  indeed! 

The  crowded  hours  of  the  great  day  passed  in  a  sort 
of  palpitating  but  suppressed  excitement.  The  Presby- 
tery withdrew  for  a  few  minutes  into  the  schoolhouse, 
which  they  filled  almost  to  the  door.  Here  they  partook 
of  Adora's  dish  of  tea  (Aline's  gift),  of  her  own  beauti- 
ful wheaten  scones,  of  oat  cakes,  crisp  and  clean-tasting, 
of  jams  and  jellies,  cool  and  fragrant,  while  the  Dominie 
closely  watched  by  Baillie  of  Hardhills,  alternately  eyed 
a  certain  locked  cupboard  of  black  oak,  of  which  his 
daughter  kept  the  key,  and  moved  uneasily  about  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  window,  looking  out  for  Sandy  Ewan. 

Slightly  weary,  but  in  more  amiable  mood,  the  Presby- 
tery returned  to  its  duties.  The  Mothers  in  Israel  sat  in 
rows,  stiff  and  indefatigable,  waiting  to  see  how  a 
particular  son  of  promise  would  acquit  himself  before  his 
judges.  The  junior  classes,  Adora's  special  care,  now 
passed  in  review.  Baillie  of  Hardhills  was  always  pecu- 
liarly terrible  at  this  stage.  His  loud  voice  was  so  intimi- 
dating that  their  very  knees  knocked  together.  And 
Mary  Adamson,  Adora's  pet  pupil,  who  trampled 
Effectual  Calling  under  her  feet  and  knew  all  the  laby- 
rinthine turnings  of  the  Commandments,  even  to  the 
"Reasons  Annexed,"  grew  so  frightened  when  the  in- 
quisitor suddenly  demanded  of  her  "What  is  the  Chief 
End  of  Man?"  that  the  well-known  words  departed  from- 
her,  and  she  stood  dumb  and  trembling.  But  Adora, 
taking  advantage  of  the  teacher's  ultimate  privilege,  put 
the  question  over  again,  adding,  "And  can  you  give  the 
scriptural  proofs  as  well?"  Upon  which  the  fountains 
of  Mary's  deep  were  broken  up,  and  even  Baillie  of 
Hardhills  had  no  more  terrors  for  her. 

To  the  New  Testament  class  succeeded  in  descending 
order  the  "Tenpenny" — to  the  "Tenpenny"  the  "Six- 


COUNTER-STROKE    TREACHEROUS       187 

penny."  The  final  "Tippenny"  was  in  sight,  when  Adora, 
suddenly  looking  up  from  her  preoccupation,  found  that 
her  father  was  not  in  the  school.  For  a  while  she  did  not 
become  uneasy.  He  had  gone  out,  she  thought,  overcome 
by  the  natural  fatigues  of  the  day,  to  rest  himself  a  little 
on  his  bed.  She  remembered  with  thankfulness  that  she 
had  expressly  bidden  him  to  do  so  if  he  should  feel  tired. 

But  three  o'clock,  the  hour  of  golden  speech,  was  at 
hand.  The  seniors  came  back,  braving  in  unashamed 
pairs  the  village  street  after  their  "Without  Prejudice" 
walk.  Parents  and  guardians  dropping  in  belated, 
crowded  more  densely  the  wall  spaces  allotted  to  them. 
Mr.  Sidney  Latimer  himself  occupied,  as  principal  heri- 
tor of  the  parish,  a  place  among  the  brethren  of  the  Pres- 
bytery. 

The  reverend  court  grew  visibly  more  expansive.  Din- 
ner was  now  well  within  sight.  Dr.  Meiklewham  had 
been  seen  to  send  off  a  message  to  his  daughter,  and 
every  one  knew  that  at  the  manse  they  were  getting  ready 
to  serve  the  broth.  Hardhills  had  it  on  good  authority 
that  there  were  two  chucky  hens  in  it.  All  was  ready. 
The  Presbytery,  sharp-set  by  a  long  day  of  question  and 
answer,  was  ready  also. 

But  still  there  was  no  Dominie ! 

For  years  too  numerous  to  be  recalled  exactly,  it  had 
been  the  custom  of  Lowran  school  that  the  Dominie,  with 
bent  head  and  a  modest  demeanour,  should  stand  up  in  his 
official  desk  and  listen  to  the  compliments,  more  or  less 
sincere,  which  were  heaped  upon  him  for  his  skill.  The 
Presbyterial  Chrysostoms  recalled  the  successes  of  the 
boys  who  had  already  gone  to  college,  the  hopes  of  mag- 
nificent careers  immediately  in  prospect  which  had  im- 
pressed the  learned  court  as  they  listened  to  David  Mc- 
Robb's  remarkable  statement  (expressed  in  Latin)  that 
"All  Gaul  was  divided  into  three  parts,"  or  Peter  Adair's 
assertion  that  he  sang  concerning  "Arms  and  the  Man." 

It  was  five  minutes  to  three — almost  time  for  the  com- 
plimenting to  commerce.  Thanks  to  Adora,  all  had  gone 


i88  STRONG  MAC 

well.  Even  Baillie  of  Hardhills,  somewhat  hostile  and 
inclined  to  be  critical,  had  noted  no  greater  failing  than 
a  slight  weakness  in  the  most  junior  classes  as  to  the 
exact  order  of  the  later  kings  of  Judah  and  Israel.  All 
the  Presbyters  were  busy  composing  their  perorations, 
looking  at  the  buckles  of  their  shoes  meantime  with  that 
condemned-cell  expression  which  such  an  operation  per- 
formed on  a  public  platform  invariably  calls  up  on  the 
most  seasoned  countenances. 

But  still  no  Dominie. 

The  last  classes  had  been  sent  back,  and  were  settling 
into  their  places  with  little  doubtful  murmurs  of  sound, 
like  the  clucks  and  clutterings  you  may  hear  from  spar- 
rows nesting  under  the  leaves,  or  from  blackbirds  going 
to  roost  in  the  crotch  of  some  fir-tree  along  the  wood 
edges. 

The  afternoon  sun  shown  out  golden  behind  the 
fathers  and  brethren,  giving  each  of  them  an  aureole 
about  his  head.  As  a  Presbytery  they  glowed.  They 
also  murmured  and  chuckled.  Dr.  Meiklewham  had  sent 
off  a  second  message.  Mr.  Peerie,  the  Moderator,  fancy- 
ing that  the  time  had  come,  raised  himself  once  to  begin 
his  speech:  "Mr.  Gracie,  parents  and  friends,  on  this 
auspicious  occasion,  when  I  see  around  me  so  many 
smiling  faces,  so  many  youthful  pledges  of  domestic  love 
and  affection — " 

Then  it  was  suddenly  discovered  that  the  Dominie  was 
absent,  and  the  Moderator  was  abruptly  pulled  down  by 
the  coat-tails.  He  felt  it,  because  he  would  have  to  think 
of  another  opening.  Then  ensued  a  vague,  uneasy  pause. 
A  girl  of  six,  in  the  second  row,  oppressed  by  the  strain, 
giggled  hysterically,  and  was  choked  into  silence  by 
means  mysterious  to  any  but  her  most  immediate  com- 
panions. 

Adora,  anxious  lest  some  accident  should  have  hap- 
pened to  her  father,  rose  to  seek  him  within  the  house. 
But  before  she  had  time  to  go  into  the  connecting  pas- 
sage, the  outer  school  entrance  was  unbarred,  a  noise  was 


COUNTER-STROKE    TREACHEROUS       189 

heard  in  the  passage  where  hung  the  hats  and  cloaks  of 
the  pupils,  the  latch  of  the  inner  door  lifted  slowly,  and 
the  Dominie  stumbled  rather  than  walked  into  the  hushed 
silence  of  Lowran  school.  The  door  shut  behind  him 
without  visible  assistance. 

Thus  fell  the  stroke. 

Adora  felt  a  tingling  chill  run  through  her  body. 
She  thought  she  was  about  to  faint.  All  power  departed 
from  her.  She  could  only  sit  still  gazing  at  her  father 
with  vague,  fascinated  eyes. 

He  swayed  visibly  on  his  legs,  seeming  to  wonder  at 
the  hush.  Then  he  laughed  idiotically. 

"Time  for  the  Latin  lesson/'  he  cried,  "eh,  where's 
your  Virgil,  Peter  Adair?" 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  reverend  Presbytery, 
seated  in  order — twelve  in  all.  He  laughed  again. 

"Latin — Greek — ,"  he  cried,  passing  his  finger  along 
the  line,  "there's  not  enough  of  the  classics  among  the 
lot  of  you  to  fill  a  good-sized  nut-shell.  There  sits 
Baillie  of  Hardhills — he  kens  none  and  never  did.  He 
kens  about  whiskey  jars,  though.  And  the  doctor,  he 
learned  some  once,  but  he  has  forgotten  it — soft  as  por- 
ridge that  head  of  his — a  fozy  turnip — a  fozy,  fozy 
turnip !  None  of  the  crew  but  Wee  Peerie  could  read  a 
page  of  Virgil  without  a  dozen  "maxies" — no,  not  to 
save  their  lives !" 

By  this  time  he  had  reached  his  desk.  Adora  recov- 
ered herself  and  bounded  to  his  side.  Taking  him  by  the 
sleeve,  she  urged  him  to  come  away  out.  Sidney  Latimer 
was  on  the  other  side.  The  members  of  the  Presbytery, 
at  first  stunned,  then  deeply  insulted,  were  mostly  on 
their  feet.  Baillie  of  Hardhills  raised  his  voice  to  rebuke 
the  insolence  of  the  Dominie.  Kind  Dr.  Meiklewham 
had  suddenly  a  grey  look  on  his  face.  But  the  voice  of 
the  Dominie  from  the  desk  rose  high  above  every  other 
sound. 

"An  ignorant  drunken  crew,"  he  cried,  "hand  and 
glove  with  the  lairds — not  a  man  among  ye  except  the 


190  STRONG  MAC 

doctor — a  kind  heart  the  doctor — good  and  sound,  all 
but  the  head.  Preach !  Ye  can  prate,  but  never  preach. 
Ye  should  hear  me  preach.  Never  a  sleeping  e'e  in  my 
kirk.  There's  a  box  of  sermons  up  the  stair,  that  no  man 
among  the  lot  of  ye  could  ever  have  laid  pen  to.  And  ye 
will  come  here  condescending  to  me — me  that  could 
teach  not  only  the  Presbytery  but  the  Synod.  It's  Mr. 
Gracie  has  done  well — his  method  of  imparting  the 
classics  does  him  credit.  The  Greek  prose  was  truly 
remarkable!  Devil  the  syllable  ye  ken  about  it — except 
maybe  Wee  Peerie.  Get  ye  out  of  my  school  and  never 
let  me  see  your  black  backs  again — carrion  crows,  birds 
of  ill  omen  that  ye  are !" 

******* 

The  insulted  Presbytery  met  over  a  very  silent  dinner 
in  the  manse,  but  before  a  blessing  was  asked,  the  case 
of  Donald  Gracie,  recalcitrant,  had  been  called  up  and 
judged.  Even  the  good  will  of  the  doctor  had  not  been 
able  to  save  the  habit  and  repute  drunkard.  And  as  for 
Sidney  Latimer,  he  had  no  standing  in  the  court.  Once 
again  Donald  Gracie  was  suspended  Presbyterially — this 
time  from  all  his  offices,  parish  school-mastership,  regis- 
trar-ship, session-clerk-ship,  elder-ship.  A  notice  was 
sent  to  him  ere  the  meeting  broke  up  that  he  must  quit 
the  school  and  schoolhouse  "so  forth  and  immediately," 
rendering  back  to  Caesar  that  which  Csesar  had  given. 

And  from  the  door  of  Lucky  Greentree's  public  house, 
Sandy  Ewan,  suddenly  protruding  his  horse  face,  hailed 
and  halted  Ebenezer  Latimer,  the  minister's  man,  who 
had  a  letter  in  his  hand  addressed  to  "Donald  Gracie, 
late  Schoolmaster  in  the  Parish  of  Lowran,  at  the  school- 
house  there." 

Ebenezer,  who  had  profited  aforetime  by  the  hospitali- 
ties of  the  young  farmer,  and  hoped  to  do  again,  per- 
mitted him  to  see  the  letter  and  to  read  its  superscription. 

"Notice  to  quit,  eh?"  he  said,  smiling  malignantly. 

But  as  to  that,  it  was  not  Ebenezer's  province  to  confess 
himself  informed.  He  only  shook  his  head,  took  the  letter 


COUNTER-STROKE    TREACHEROUS       191 

out  of  his  patron's  hand,  and  trudged^tolidly  on  up  the 
street  towards  the  schoolhouse. 

Sandy  went  within  to  finish  his  brandy  and  water.  The 
Dominie's  empty  glass  was  still  on  the  table.  The  spider 
had  been  waiting  for  the  taking  of  the  fly.  But  the  dour 
brain  that  lay  behind  the  horse  face  was  still  cool  and  clear, 
though  he  had  been  drinking  more  or  less  steadily  since 
10  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Sandy  Ewan  glanced  at  the 
old  man's  empty  glass  and  grinned  evilly. 

"Ah,  little  Dora,"  he  said,  "did  not  I  tell  you  that  I 
should  strike  where  your  pride  would  feel  it  most !" 

And  with  a  shout  down  the  passage  he  called  to  Lucky 
Greentree  that  he  was  ready  to  pay  the  score. 

"And  I  will  settle  the  Dominie's  too !"  he  added,  gener- 
ously, slapping  his  purse  on  the  table. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

WHAT  DICKIE  DICK  FOUND  ON  THE  GLEBE  ROAD. 

Now  the  course  of  St.  Cuthbertstown  justice  was  this. 
The  sheriff,  good  easy  man,  had  committed  Roy  McCul- 
loch  to  the  gaol  of  the  county  town,  and  to  the  common  eye 
that  seemed  the  end  of  the  matter.  There  Strong  Mac 
must  lie  till  upon  the  day  of  solemn  assize,  he  should 
be  transferred  to  Drumfern,  to  stand  before  a  jury  of  his 
peers,  and  meet  the  frown  of  the  terrible  Red  Judge  from 
Edinburgh. 

But  Strong  Mac's  case  was  a  more  than  usually  serious 
one.  All  the  papers  must  go  to  Edinburgh  for  the  con- 
sideration of  the  Crown  Council  there.  Neither  the  fiscal 
nor  yet  the  sheriff  was  capable  of  deciding  to  proceed 
with  the  charge  against  Strong  Mac.  First  the  lord 
advocate's  deputy  and  then  as  a  court  of  final  appeal  the 
great  man  himself,  must  state  whether  on  the  evidence  be- 
fore them  Roy  should  be  sent  to  the  assizes  on  the  capital 
charge. 

The  advocate  depute,  to  whom  the  docuquet  was  trans- 
ferred, found  nothing  directly  against  Strong  Mac,  except 
the  fact,  in  itself  sufficiently  damnatory,  that  the  sheep 
skins  had  been  discovered  in  his  father's  barn.  But  then, 
though  there  was  presumption,  no  evidence  existed  as  to 
who  had  placed  them  there.  Roy  had  made  no  apparent 
profit  out  of  the  killings,  could  have  made  none,  except 
possibly  in  the  consumption  of  the  flesh,  in  which  case  his 
guilt  must  have  been  shared  with  his  father.  Nor  had 
the  mutton  been  dried  or  salted.  No  inordinate  number  of 
mutton  hams  were  found  swinging  to  the  baulks  of  the 
House  of  Muir.  The  McCullochs  were  in  no  want  of  fresh 


WHAT   DICKIE   DICK  FOUND  193 

meat,  as  could  easily  be  shown.  There  was  abundance  of 
smoked  venison  in  their  chimney,  and  a  few  casks  of 
brandy,  probably  undutied,  lay  in  their  cellar.  A  sufficient 
sum  stood  to  Sharon  McCulloch's  credit  in  the  Bank  of 
Scotland  at  Drumfern. 

Evidence  of  motive,  therefore,  was  wanting — evidence 
of  fact,  weak!  No^  said  the  advocate,  there  was  not 
enough  of  general  suspicion  or  circumstantial  evidence  to 
send  the  young  man  before  the  assizes.  It  was  of  no  use 
remitting  him  back  to  St.  Cuthbertstown.  The  substitute 
was  one  fool — the  sheriff  principal  another!  Send  them 
word  to  let  the  lad  go ! 

Thus  rapidly  and  picturesquely  the  lord  advocate  did 
justice,  when,  at  his  beautiful  hillside  residence,  his  de- 
pute laid  the  case  before  him. 

Which  word  travelling  down  to  St.  Cuthbertstown, 
Strong  Mac  with  a  sudden  dazing  of  his  faculties,  found 
himself  free.  His  cell  in  the  old  jail  had  been  both  dusky 
and  dirty,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  been  forgotten — as 
if  he  must  lie  there  for  ever. 

Roy  stepped  out  into  the  clear  light  of  early  afternoon. 
The  young  summer  was  already  sprinkling  the  twigs  of 
the  ashes  with  dainty  green  butterflies.  Rosettes  were  be- 
ginning to  dangle  from  the  larches  along  the  plantation 
edges.  Outside  the  gaol  door  Strong  Mac  stood  blinking 
like  an  owl  turned  out  into  the  daylight.  He  did  not  know 
any  one  in  St.  Cuthbertstown,  and  had  no  desire  to  stay 
there.  So  after  a  few  minutes  of  hesitation  he  struck 
through  the  narrow  bye-streets,  not  because  of  the  quiet 
(for  all  streets  are  quiet  in  St.  Cuthbertstown)  but  from 
an  instinct  of  shame.  He  seemed  unclean  to  himself. 
There  was  a  vague  offence,  as  of  gaol  fever,  or  worse, 
about  his  clothing.  He  took  his  way  up  the  riverside  till, 
arrived  at  a  sheltered  pool,  he  stripped,  and  plunged  into 
the  cool  brown  water.  Then  after  submitting  it  to  careful 
and  prolonged  consideration,  he  resumed  his  apparel.  His 
self-respect  was  thereby  somewhat  recovered.  At  least  he 
knew  that  he  was  clean. 


194  STRONG  MAC 

Strong  Mac  looked  down  at  his  clothes.  They  were 
worn,  shabby,  tainted  with  the  disgrace  of  the  place  where 
he  had  lain.  No,  he  was  not  fit  to  appear  before  her.  He 
knew  that.  Nevertheless,  since  she  had  seen  his  shame — 
that  night  when  they  took  him,  she  also  should  be  the  first 
in  Lowran  to  hear  of  his  rehabilitation.  He  would  go  to 
the  schoolhouse. 

It  was  wonderful  how  the  thought  altered  him.  Dis- 
grace seemed  to  fall  away  from  him  instantly.  His  heart 
exulted  that  he  would  see  her — her,  of  whom  he  had  had 
such  long  thoughts  in  the  prison.  He  was  no  more  the 
boy  he  had  been,  so  he  told  himself.  The  new  Strong  Mac 
laughed  when  he  remembered  that  he  had  once  tossed  the 
bar  and  putted  the  stone,  rejoicing  in  his  own  prowess. 
All  that  seemed  a  thing  so  inconceivably  little  and  useless 
to  him  now.  But  a  gate  had  fallen  from  its  hinges.  Strong 
Mac  lifted  it  with  one  hand  and  replaced  it.  Then  he  laid 
his  fingers  lightly  upon  the  topmost  bar  and  sprang  back- 
wards and  forwards  over  it  with  the  ease  of  a  bird.  He 
caught  the  branch  of  a  tree  with  his  left  hand  as  high  as 
he  could  reach,  and  drew  himself  up  till  his  chin  was  over 
the  rough  bark.  This  he  did  several  times,  raising  and 
lowering  himself.  Then  he  dropped  lightly  back  upon  the 
ground.  No,  so  far  as  bodily  strength  went  he  was  still 
able  for  anything  that  might  come  to  him. 

It  was  already  growing  dark  as  he  approached  Lowran. 
The  very  air  smelt  different  to  his  nostrils  as  he  came  over 
Barstobrick  moor.  The  famous  heather  of  his  native 
parish  was  not  yet  in  bloom,  but  the  wind  across  the  open 
sweep  of  brown  moorland,  splotched  with  black  where  the 
spring  burnings  had  been  allowed  to  wander,  brought  the 
light  into  his  eyes,  the  colour  into  his  blanched  cheeks. 

Yonder  in  the  hollow,  nestled  behind  its  dark  green  plan- 
tations, lay  Lowran.  Its  "lums"  had  almost  ceased  smok- 
ing when  Roy  came  in  sight  of  it.  Ebie  Cargen  had  put 
out  his  smiddy  fire,  and  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen  over  his 
supper  when  the  young  man  paused  on  the  green  brow  of 
the  knoll  above.  It  was  his  instinct  to  go  down  and  pre- 


WHAT   DICKIE   DICK  FOUND  195 

sent  himself  to  Ebie,  demanding  news  of  him,  as,  at  least, 
a  man  who  spoke  no  He.  But  another  thought  came  to 
dominate  him — rather  the  return  of  his  first  thought.  First 
of  all  before  any  one  else  saw  him,  he  would  go  to 
Adora. 

Woodman  and  hillman  as  he  was,  accustomed  to  the 
chase  of  wild  things,  Strong  Mac  carried  out  his  intent  as 
silently  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  passes  over  a  hill.  There 
dark  among  its  tall  black  pines  was  the  schoolhouse.  His 
heart  beat,  as  it  had  never  done  during  his  oft-repeated  ex- 
aminations before  the  sheriff. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  wall  of  the  little  private 
garden,  separated  from  it  only  by  the  dyke  over  which 
he  had  so  often  cunningly  conveyed  cut  fire-wood  and 
back-loads  of  peat.  Now  both  piles  seemed  particularly 
low.  Roy  smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  that  he  would 
not  be  long  in  altering  that. 

He  laid  his  plaid  on  the  dyke  and  leaped  over.  Every- 
thing was  quiet.  As  usual  they  would  be  at  the  other  side 
of  the  house,  that  which  fronted  towards  the  high  road  to 
Lowran. 

He  turned  the  corner,  smiling,  expecting  to  see  the  light 
burning  in  the  window  of  the  little  parlour,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  potted  plants  making  a  black  pattern  on  the 
blinds.  It  was  dark.  He  looked  up  to  Adora's  bedroom. 
Dark  also.  He  went  quickly  to  the  door  and  knocked.  All 
was  silent.  He  could  hear  a  noise  within — something  like 
the  scutting  of  a  rat  among  papers. 

He  tried  the  latch.  It  lifted,  but  the  door  did  not  yield. 
It  was  locked. 

Strong  Mac  stood  back.  For  a  long  moment  he  could 
not  think  what  had  happened.  Was  Adora  lost  to  him? 
Married?  He  would  have  heard  of  it.  Was  her  father 
dead  ?  Some  one  would  surely  have  sent  him  word.  He 
went  to  the  window.  The  white  Ayrshire  rose  had  been 
pulled  down  by  rude  hands  and  trailed  along  the  ground. 
Torn  paper,  empty  boxes,  and  bare  walls  were  all  that  the 
deepening  twilight  revealed  to  him. 


196  STRONG  MAC 

Roy  McCulloch  stood  a  long  while  under  the  sough  of 
the  trees.  He  shivered  a  little  after  the  closeness  of  the 
cell.  For  the  wind  struck  chill  out  of  the  north,  sharp  as 
the  front  of  the  Scottish  spring  and  mournful  as  its 
autumn. 

Then  there  came  to  him  resolve,  quick  and  sudden. 

It  was  Sidney  Latimer  who  had  done  this!  Either  his 
pleading  had  been  successful  and  Adora  had  gone  away 
with  him.  Or  unsuccessful,  and  this  was  his  revenge.  It 
is  curious  that,  in  spite  of  the  quarrel  at  the  smithy,  Roy 
never  once  thought  of  Sandy  Ewan.  The  idea  that  such  a 
man  could  be  anything  to  Adora  Gracie  found  no  lodgment 
in  his  heart.  But  Sidney  Latimer  was  another  matter. 
There  was  frank  republicanism  in  this  young  hill-poacher's 
heart.  All  men  were  not  born  equal,  but  all  good  men  be- 
came so.  Latimer  was  the  son  of  one  landowner,  he  of 
another.  That  the  Laird  of  Lowran  could  count  a  hun- 
dred acres  for  each  of  his  father's  was  nothing  to  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch. 

He  would  go  to  the  Great  House  of  Lowran — now,  as 
he  was.  He  would  speak  with  Sidney  Latimer.  As  he 
turned  down  the  little  path  along  which  he  had  so  often 
walked  with  beating  heart,  Adora  by  his  side,  he  saw  a 
figure  disengage  itself  from  the  gate.  Something  familiar 
in  the  attitude  took  Strong  Mac's  eye.  He  sprang  over  the 
dyke,  and  laid  a  sufficient  retaining  hand  on  the  man's 
shoulder.  In  another  moment  Roy  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  Sidney  Latimer.  The  meeting  was  unexpected 
on  both  sides,  and  Roy's  hand  rested  a  second  on  the 
rough  tweed  collar  of  the  Laird's  coat.  Then  Sidney  Lati- 
mer with  a  fierce  gesture  and  a  backward  spring  shook 
himself  free. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  demanded,  "I  thought 
you  had  been — elsewhere !" 

"I  was  coming  to  seek  you,  Laird  Lowran,"  said  Strong 
Mac,  slowly.  His  mind  was  altogether  on  the  thing  that 
held  his  heart— the  fear  that  Adora  was  lost  to  him.  He 
had  no  care  for  politenesses. 


WHAT   DICKIE   DICK  FOUND  197 

"Indeed,"  said  Sidney  Latimer,  somewhat  frigidly,  "in 
what  can  I  assist  you  ?" 

"I  have  an  interest,"  Strong  Mac  spoke  steadily  and  with 
rigid  plainness,  "an  interest  in  Mr.  Gracie — and  his 
daughter.  I  was  about  to  seek  you  in  order  to  ask  of  you 
what  had  become  of  them." 

"And  by  what  right  did  you  suppose  that  I  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  their  presence  or  absence?"  demanded 
Sidney  Latimer,  fiercely.  For  the  man  was  before  him  of 
whom  he  had  been  jealous.  Nay,  even  now  his  heart  re- 
tained something  of  its  former  feeling.  It  was  this  man 
who  had  brought  about  his  quarrel  with  Adora. 

But  Strong  Mac's  simple  straightforwardness  van- 
quished him. 

"I  have  indeed  no  right  to  suppose  anything — nor  do  I," 
he  said,  "but  I  have  been  .  .  .  where  I  have  heard  nothing 
concerning  those  dear  to  me.  And  I  thought — that  if  I 
could  find  you,  I  should  hear  the  truth.  It  seemed  strange 
to  me — to  come  home  and  find — this !" 

"Come  with  me,"  said  the  Laird  of  Lowran,  melting 
suddenly;  "to  you  it  is  no  stranger  than  it  is  to  me." 

And  passing  the  porter  lodge  and  walking  together 
through  the  dark  arches  of  the  trees,  Roy  listened  to  the 
story  of  that  which  had  befallen  Adora.  Poacher  and 
landowner  took  counsel  together. 

"And  the  man  who  did  it  ?"  Roy  demanded  fiercely,  the 
nails  of  his  fingers  crisping  into  his  palms. 

Sidney  Latimer  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  the  young 
man's  arm.  "Wait,"  he  said,  "the  thing  will  come  right. 
I  felt  as  you  do — at  first.  But  to  do  as  you  propose  in 
your  heart  will  not  advantage — her!" 

Tacitly  the  two  men  avoided  mentioning  the  girl's  name. 
But  Strong  Mac  would  not  be  satisfied. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  a  smothered  forcefulness,  "I  will 
not  be  content.  Tell  me — was  it  Sandy  Ewan  ?" 

The  Laird  was  silent. 

"Then  if  you  will  not  answer,  I  take  it  that  Sandy 
Ewan  made  the  old  man  drunk  and  pushed  him  into  the 


198  STRONG  MAC 

school  in  order  to  disgrace  his  daughter  before  all  the 
people?" 

"I  have  only  heard  such  things  said,"  repeated  Sidney 
Latimer,  with  sorrowful  acquiescence,  "I  do  not  know !" 

"Ah,"  said  Roy  McCulloch,  deep  in  thought.  "Then 
will  I  go  and  speak  with  Sandy  Ewan." 

Before  he  left  the  gaol  he  had  satisfied  himself  as  to 
who  had  laid  the  information  in  his  own  case.  He  knew 
or  thought  he  knew  by  whose  orders  the  sheepskins  had 
been  placed  in  the  barn  of  the  House  of  Muir.  There 
was  another  question  which  he  had  to  ask  of  the  young 
laird,  yet  more  important. 

"Where  have  they  gone?"  he  demanded  of  his  com- 
panion, abruptly. 

It  was  with  an  equal  brusqueness  that  Sidney  Latimer 
answered,  "If  I  knew  that  I  would  not  be  here !  Have  you 
anything  more  to  ask  me  ?  If  not,  I  bid  you  good-night !" 

Thus  with  Sidney  Latimer's  curt  salutation  ended  the 
evening  of  Tuesday,  the  3Oth  day  of  April. 


About  eleven  minutes  past  six  on  the  morning  of  Wed- 
nesday, the  first  day  of  May,  or  rather  less  than  nine  hours 
after  Strong  Mac  had  parted  with  Sidney  Latimer  under 
the  trees  of  the  avenue  which  led  to  Lowran  House,  one 
Richard  Dickie,  known  as  Dickie  Dick,  ploughman  on  the 
estate  of  Boreland,  going  out  to  his  labour,  ditching-shovel 
and  pick  over  his  shoulder,  came  upon  sundry  curious 
spots  upon  the  road,  irregular  in  shape.  If  it  had  been 
autumn  he  would  have  thought  little  about  the  matter. 
They  looked  exactly  like  trampled  blackberries,  the  pur- 
ple colour  fading  into  black. 

As  it  was,  the  intellect  of  Dickie  Dick,  never  acute  at 
any  time,  did  not  attach  any  particular  importance  to  the 
marks.  Some  one  had  gone  that  way  early  carrying  a  pot 
of  paint.  How  carelessly  he  had  handled  it!  Dickie 
thought  it  was  a  strange  colour  to  paint  carts  or  barn- 
doors. But  Dickie  Dick's  day's  work  was  on  his  mind, 


WHAT   DICKIE   DICK  FOUND  199 

and  he  would  have  let  the  matter  of  the  spots  slip  but  for 
one  circumstance. 

A  little  further  along  the  road,  lying  on  his  back,  with 
his  hands  gripped  full  of  grass  and  leaves,  the  signs  of  a 
fierce  struggle  all  about,  Richard  Dickie  found  the  dead 
body  of  his  master,  Alexander  Ewan,  with  six  inches  of 
a  steel  knife  sticking  between  his  shoulder  blades. 

As  the  lightning  flashes  from  the  east  to  the  west  the 
news  ran  across  the  parish,  that  between  10  o'clock  on 
Tuesday  night  and  six  of  Wednesday  morning  Sandy 
Ewan  had  been  murdered  within  a  hundred  yards  of  his 
own  new  house  of  Boreland. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

SANDY  EWAN'S  UNSEEN  VISITOR. 

WHAT  follows  is  Dickie  Dick's  account  of  the  matter — 
not  that  which  he  gave  to  the  fiscal,  but  that  which  he  re- 
peated times  without  number  to  a  very  large  proportion  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Lowran  and  the  neighbourhood,  ex- 
actly in  the  same  words. 

"Ye  see,  this  is  what  I  ken  aboot  it — and  Lord  be  thankit 
that  I  ken  nae  mair.  For  the  pesterfication  I  hae  gotten 
frae  thae  lawyer  bodies  is  juist  past  tellin*  and  wad  hae 
driven  mony  a  wiser  man  oot  o'  his  wits !" 

One  of  the  auditors  having  made  an  obvious  suggestion 
why  this  had  not  taken  place,  Dickie  Dick  threatened 
strong  measures. 

"Gin  ye  gie  me  ony  o'  your  impidence,  Ged  Blyth,  ye 
can  e'en  tell  the  story  yoursel'.  Ye  may  think  yoursel'  a 
clever  lad,  you  and  them  that  ken  nae  better  than  to  laugh 
at  ye.  But  nane  of  you  fand  him  but  me,  and  nane  o'  ye 
can  tell  the  story  but  me — that  is,  no  as  it  ought  to  be 

telled." 

******* 

"It  was  this  way/'  he  continued  after  a  pause  for 
apology  on  one  side  and  pacification  on  the  other,  "to  begin 
at  the  beginnin' — and  that  was  the  nicht  before,  the 
master  had  been  unco  dour  and  girnin'  a'  day,  till,  maybes 
a  wee  while  after  nine  o'clock  when  I  was  helpin'  Davie 
Kirklands,  the  unmarriet  ploughman,  to  supper  the  horse, 
there  cam'  a  cry  to  us  baith  to  gang  into  the  hoose  to 
Maister  Ewan  that  meenute!" 


"  *  YE  CAN  E'EN  TELL  THE  STORY  YOURSElA 


SANDY    EWAN'S    UNSEEN    VISITOR    201 

"  'It'll  be  to  tak'  the  Bulk !'  (to  be  present  at  family  wor- 
ship), says  Davie  Kirklands,  lauchin'  like. 

"  'Aye,  a  gye  queer  Buik  it'll  be,  then !'  says  I.  'Muckle 
Sandy  doesna  trouble  the  Throne  o'  Grace  verra  often !' 

"  The  mair's  the  peety/  says  Davie  (wha  is  a  wee  bit 
o'  a  professor — that  is,  atween  his  ploys  wi'  this  lass  and 
that).  The  mair's  the  peety/  says  he.  Tor  it  brings  a 
blessing  on  a  hoose  to  hae  a  bit  prayer  pitten  up  at  e'en  and 
morn.  Forbye,  it's  a  rest  frae  wark !' 

"And  when  we  gaed  up  to  the  big  hoose,  faith,  there 
were  the  tumblers  laid  oot  and  the  packs  o'  cairds,  and  the 
toddy  ladles,  and  certes,  Davie  Kirklands  forgat  a*  aboot 
the  takkin'  o'  the  Buik,  and  smacks  his  lips  like  ony  ither 
man !  For  he  thocht  that  no  yin  o'  us  wad  gang  sober  to 
bed.  And  that's  a  treat  that  doesna  come  often  in  the  wey 
o'  puir  ploomen  and  ditcher  folk  like  me  an'  Davie. 

"Ow  aye,  the  maister  may  hae  had  his  fauts — some  o' 
them  leeve  after  him,  and  some  are  even  auld  eneuch  to 
gang  to  the  schule — but  at  hame  he  was  aye  couthy  and 
bien  wi'  the  bit  dram.  It  gied  a  man  a  fine  regairdless  cock 
to  his  Sunday  bonnet  to  spend  a  winter  aboot  the  Bore- 
land.  Wae's  me — it's  a'  gane !  It's  a'  by  and  dune  wi' !" 

"Gang  on  wi'  the  story?  Weel,  what  else  am  I  doin'? 
Think  ye  a  man's  tongue  gangs  aye  to  yae  lilt  the  day  by 
the  length,  like  a  mill-happer?  And  when  we  were 
standin'  i'  the  parlour  wi'  our  hats  in  oor  hand,  gye 
sheepish,  Sandy  orders  us  to  throw  them  in  the  corner  and 
sit  oor  ways  doon.  And  then  he  opens  up  his  wull  wi'  us. 

"It  seems  there  was  a  man  comin'  to  see  him  that  Sandy 
Ewan  was  some  dootfu'  o'.  There  was  nocht  by  ordinar 
or  curious  in  that!  He  had  a'  sorts  and  kinds  o'  ill- 
dealin's,  the  maister.  Up  to  the  elbows  half  his  time  in 
jukery-packery  wark  wi'  weemen  an'  horses  an'  gemlin' 
(gambling)  !  That  was  the  airt  o'  Sandy  Ewan  ever  since 
his  faither  did  him  the  warst  service  he  could — by  giein' 
up  the  ghost  and  leaving  him  heir  to  a'  that  he  possessed. 

"Wha'  was  the  man  that  was  comin'  to  the  Boreland. 
Aye,  ye  may  weel  ask !  Dootless,  HIM  wha's  handiwark 


202  STRONG    MAC 

lies  up  in  the  chaumer  yonder.  We  were  no  to  set  e'en  on 
the  veesitor  though,  but  to  bide  in  a  bedroom  brave  and 
handy,  if  sae  be  we  were  cried  on.  But  Sandy  Ewan  maun 
hae  been  feared  by  ordinar  when  he  sent  for  twa  men  frae 
the  stable  to  help  him  to  pay  a  man  siller.  But  Davie 
Kirklands  threepit  wi'  me,  'It  will  be  somebody  wha's 
weemen-folk  he  has  been  meddlin'  wi/  He  will  be  payin' 
the  cradle  stent  to  keep  oot  o'  the  clutches  o'  the  law.  He's 
an  awesome  man  this  maister  o'  oors !  The  deil  will  hae  a 
bonny  bargain  o'  him  when  he  gets  him!' 

"This  Davie  said  lichtsomely,  as  ony  o'  you  micht  say 
it,  never  thinkin'  that  the  black  deil  himsel'  was  oot  there 
on  the  Glebe  Road — waitin' — at  that  verra  meenit.  Had 
he  kenned,  Davie  michtna  hae  crawed  sae  croose.  The  deil 
has  nippit  up  better  Christians  than  him  mony  a  time,  and 
aff  wi'  them  in  his  plaid-neuk  to  Muckle  Hell. 

"Weel,  at  ony  rate,  the  maister  gied  us  a  candle  to  see 
by  and  the  feck  o'  three  or  fower  drams  apiece.  Then  he 
pitches  a  pack  o'  auld  worn  cairds  at  us  and  tells  us  to  be 
ready  when  he  cried  on  us — the  whilk  he  was  only  to  do 
gin  he  had  the  need.  As  we  were  shuttin'  the  door  he 
promised  to  thraw  oor  necks  if  we  stirred  or  as  muckle  as 
looked  through  the  keyhole.  We  were  to  bide  there,  that 
was  a' !  He  expectit  a  man  that  nicht,  a  man  that  micht 
be  friendly  and  micht  no.  That  was  as  muckle  as  was 
guid  for  the  like  o'  us  to  ken.  And  then  he  dooble- 
cursed  us  richt  brisk  and  sharp — but  that  we  were  weel 
used  to  and  minded  nocht  ava' ! 

"Guess  ye  hoo  we  swat  there  in  the  inner  chaumer,  wi' 
no*  a  soond  in  the  great  muckle  hoose  forbye  the  sclaff  o' 
the  cairds  and  whiles  the  settin'  doon  o'  a  glass  or  the 
clinkin'  it  made  on  the  neck  o'  a  bottle  when  oor  hands 
shook.  But  for  a'  oor  game,  ye  may  believe  that  oor  lugs 
were  bane-stiff  wi'  hearkenin'  what  was  gaun  on  in  the 
room  Sandy  Ewan  caa'd  the  'leebrary/  It  had  a  lang  new 
fangled  wundow  at  yae  end  that  opened  out  like  a  door — 
a  daft-like  contrivance  that  onybody  might  hae  kenned 
was  for  nicht-hawk  tricks  and  wad  lead  to  nae  guid. 


SANDY    EWAN'S    UNSEEN    VISITOR    203 

"After  a  while  we  heard  twa  men  speakin'  gye  an'  lood 
• — Sandy's  voice  the  loodest.  The  man  maun  hae  corned 
through  the  lang  window.  For  deil  a  fit  did  he  either 
come  or  gang  by  the  door  into  the  passage.  I'll  swear  that 
Davie's  e'e  never  left  the  keyhole  frae  first  to  last. 

"But  we  could  hear  them  speakin' — an'  it  was  a  voice  I 
should  hae  kenned  too,  though  I  couldna  juist  pit  a  name 
to  the  man  that  aught  it!  They  werena  'greein'  ower 
weel  either,  sae  Davie  an'  me  keepit  a  firm  haud  o'  oor 
dickies,  and,  lads,  for  mysel'  I  wished  that  there  had  been 
a  lang  French  window  in  the  chaumer  that  we  were  in. 
Davie  was  mair  prepared  (wi'  his  ain  tale  o't)  to  meet  his 
Maker,  sae  I  wad  e'en  hae  been  for  lettin'  him  gang  ben 
and  help  the  maister  by  himsel' ! 

"But  by  guid  luck  we  werena  askit,  either  of  us.  There 
cam'  nae  cry  oot  o'  the  leebrary.  And  by  and  bye  the 
maister  comes  ben,  and  orders  us  baith  to  oor  beds, 
threepin'  that  we  will  be  cheatin'  him  oot  o'  the  wark  he 
was  payin'  us  for,  by  lyin'  snorin'  i'  the  mornin'. 

"  'And  see  that  ye  sneck  the  stable  door !'  he  says  as  we 
gaed  oot,  'for  I'm  gaun  to  gie  a  bit  look  roond  the  hoose 
mysel',  and  if  I  find  onything  oot  o'  its  place,  I'll  break 
your  lazy  backs  i'  the  mornin'  as  sure  as  my  name's  Sandy 
Ewan !' 

"And  that  was  the  last  I  heard  o'  him  or  saw — till 
steppin'  cannily  alang  the  Glebe  Road  I  fand  him  lyin', 
half  i'  the  ditch  an'  half  oot,  his  great  braid  face  turned  to 
the  heevens  and  a  knife  stickin'  to  the  haft  in  his  bull 
neck !" 

******* 

Such  was  Dickie  Dick's  tale,  as  it  became  stereotyped 
for  general  use.  And  even  the  trained  acumen  of  the 
fiscal,  who  had  at  last  a  job  to  his  mind,  could  make 
little  more  of  it  than  this. 

It  was  evident  that  the  murdered  man  expected  a  visitor, 
whom  he  had  reason  to  distrust.  As  a  precaution  he  had 
brought  two  of  his  able-bodied  servants  to  remain  within 
call.  But  he  did  not  wish  them  to  see  the  visitor,  except  in 


204  STRONG    MAC 

case  of  an  attack.  The  man  came.  The  meeting  passed 
off  without  overt  hostilities.  Indeed,  the  suspicions  of  the 
young  farmer  had  by  some  means  been  allayed.  For  he 
proposed  to  go  out  and  lock  up  the  premises,  without  ask- 
ing the  presence  or  assistance  of  the  two  serving-men. 

Now  the  fact  of  Roy  McCulloch's  release  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  same  day  did  not  escape  the  attention  of  the 
fiscal.  But  the  young  man  had  been  seen  bathing  in  a 
pool  of  the  river  and  afterwards  crossing  the  hills  in  the 
direction  of  his  father's  farm.  It  could  not  be  supposed 
that  he  had  had  time  to  go  so  far  out  of  his  way  as  to  the 
farm  of  Boreland  by  ten  o'clock  the  same  night.  No  one 
had  recognised  him  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Lowran, 
much  less  in  the  vicinity  of  the  spot  where  the  murder  had 
been  committed.  So  the  sheriff  and  fiscal,  still  smarting 
from  the  "back-set"  administered  to  them  from  official 
headquarters,  were  rather  inclined,  while  keeping  their 
minds  open,  to  let  the  young  man  alone.  Besides,  in  this 
case,  as  in  the  other,  an  apparent  motive  was  lacking.  For 
Sandy  Ewan  had  not  appeared  in  the  informations  which 
had  been  lodged  against  Roy  McCulloch.  It  was  re- 
called that  he  had  given  evidence  with  apparent  reluc- 
tance, and  as  far  as  possible  in  favour  of  the  accused. 
Furthermore  he  had  constantly  come  and  gone  to  see  Mc- 
Culloch while  a  prisoner  in  the  gaol  of  St.  Cuthbertstown. 

Nor  in  the  countryside,  generally  so  much  better  in- 
formed than  officialdom  upon  such  matters,  was  there  any 
more  suspicion.  Roy  McCulloch  had  come  home.  The 
affair  of  the  sheep-stealing  had  ended,  exactly  as  every  one 
knew  it  would.  Even  the  spite  of  the  lairds  could  not 
prove  guilt  where  there  was  none.  Whatever  the  McCul- 
lochs  were  (and  the  parish  knew  very  well  all  that  could 
be  said  against  them  throughout  their  generations),  they 
were  no  sheep-stealers.  Smugglers,  deer-poachers,  private 
distillers,  ready  for  a  rough  give-and-take  with  the 
gaugers  or  preventive  men — yes,  any  or  all  of  these.  But 
slayers  of  an  honest  man's  sheep — no!  Such  a  charge 
must  surely  break  down.  All  Lowran  knew  it  would.  So 


SANDY    EWAN'S    UNSEEN    VISITOR    205 

Roy  McCulloch  went  about  undisturbed.  He  was  seen  on 
the  hill  with  his  gun,  as  usual.  He  was  at  the  market  buy- 
ing and  selling  as  if  nothing  had  happened — a  market 
where  nobody  did  anything  but  talk  about  the  murder  of 
Sandy  Ewan,  and  how  the  murderer  was  still  at  large  and 
likely  to  be. 

It  was  to  be  noticed  that  on  this  occasion  the  farmers 
did  not  wait  till  dusk  before  ordering  their  horses  at  the 
Commercial  and  the  Cross  Keys.  Also  on  an  average  they 
drank  more  by  ?.  couple  of  gills.  They  were  earlier  in 
reaching  home.  If  any  one  asked  about  the  matter,  he  was 
told  very  shortly  that  "their  wives  were  feared  to  bide  their 
lane !"  For  the  thought  of  a  secret  murderer,  lurking  red- 
hand  behind  a  dyke  or  ready  to  spring  out  of  a  thicket 
upon  the  passer-by,  has  a  strange  effect  upon  all  the  people 
of  a  district  where  such  a  crime  has  been  committed. 

It  was  a  fine  time  for  love-making.  The  Lowran  lasses 
would  not  go  to  the  well  without  escort,  even  in  broad  day- 
light. The  lads  had  to  accompany  them  in  the  summer 
twilight  to  the  ewe-milking  at  the  buchts — even  across  the 
yard  as  far  as  the  byre.  Old  pistols  were  furbished  up 
that  had  not  been  fired  since  Drumclog.  Kate  Brydson, 
putting  her  fingers  out  to  fasten  a  window  shutter,  felt  her 
hand  shaken  by  a  mischievous  brother,  and  forthwith  sank 
down  on  the  floor  in  a  faint.  Brydson  Senior,  tailor  in 
Lowran,  was  still  correcting  his  son  when  Kate  came  to 
herself,  and  Brydson  Junior's  objections  to  castigation,  as 
stated  by  him  in  a  loud  voice,  caused  his  sister  to  shriek 
out,  "The  murderer!  The  murderer!"  Whereupon  her 
mother,  a  broad-beamed  lady  of  mature  nerves,  fainted 
dead  away  also. 

Nobody  was  sorry  for  Sandy  Ewan,  except  a  woman  or 
two  whom  he  had  ill  treated  and  a  dog  that  he  had  fre- 
quently beaten  almost  to  death.  Nevertheless,  after  the 
medical  examination,  his  funeral  was  celebrated  with  great 
pomp,  people  coming  from  great  distances  merely  to  see 
the  place  where  the  tragedy  had  taken  place. 

Crowds  of  them  stood  all  day  long,  gaping  stupidly  at 


206  STRONG   MAC 

the  trampled  earth  of  the  Glebe  Road  as  if  they  expected 
the  blood  of  the  slain  to  cry  out  from  the  ground,  fulfilling 
to  the  very  letter  the  word  of  Scripture. 

But  there  was  one  man  who  knew  more  than  the  others, 
and  whose  heart  was  exceedingly  troubled  within  him. 
That  man  was  Sidney  Latimer.  When  he  returned  from 
the  funeral  of  the  murdered  man,  where  he  had  seen  Roy 
McCulloch  walking  calm  and  collected  by  his  father's  side, 
and  standing  hat  in  hand  by  the  open  grave,  he  went  di- 
rectly into  his  study  and  threw  himself  down  on  a  sofa  to 
think.  He  had  need.  For  he  alone  of  all  the  world  knew 
that  Strong  Mac  had  not  returned  to  House  of  Muir  by 
way  of  the  St.  Cuthbertstown  road  and  the  Bennanbrack 
hills.  He  alone  had  heard  the  words  that  had  been  spoken 
in  the  Great  House  avenue  under  the  moaning  sough  of 
the  beeches.  But  having  heard,  he  could  not  forget  the 
grim  bitterness  of  anger  expressed  in  the  simple  phrase : 
"Then  will  I  go  and  speak  with  Sandy  Ewan!" 

What  if  Roy  McCulloch  were  the  visitor  for  whom 
Sandy  Ewan  had  made  his  preparations,  whose  voice  was 
heard  in  angry  converse  in  the  library  of  the  gentleman- 
farmer,  whose  entrance  and  exit  had  alike  been  unseen! 
It  seemed  probable  enough  to  Sidney  Latimer  that  Ewan 
had  received  notice  of  his  enemy's  approaching  release 
from  prison !  It  was  Ewan's  sheep  the  prisoner  had  been 
suspected  of  stealing.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  sus- 
pect Ewan  of  laying  the  information  against  him.  Even 
apart  from  Adora  Gracie  the  ill-feeling  between  them  was 
obvious.  Moreover,  Roy  McCulloch  had  been  in  Lowran 
late  on  the  evening  of  the  murder,  instead  of  at  home  with 
his  father  at  the  House  of  Muir,  as  every  one  else  be- 
lieved. His  last  spoken  words  had  been  a  threat  against 
the  dead  man,  and  he  had  gone  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
spot  where  the  body  was  found. 

Now  Sidney  Latimer  was  a  gentleman.  Before  serving 
as  a  soldier,  he  had  studied  law  and  had  been  admitted  to 
the  Scottish  Bar.  He  was  also  a  justice  of  the  peace.  But 
he  could  not  be  a  tale-bearer.  He  had,  it  is  true,  little 


SANDY    EWAN'S    UNSEEN    VISITOR    207 

doubt  of  Roy  McCulloch's  guilt.  In  fact,  he  could  easily 
reconstitute  the  scene  at  the  Boreland  to  himself.  There 
had  been  no  premeditation.  Of  that  he  felt  certain.  But 
there  had  been  reproach  and  counter-reproach,  till,  most 
likely,  Sandy  Ewan's  dour  temper  had  given  way  sud- 
denly. He  had  struck  the  blow  which  had  proved  his  own 
death-warrant.  The  dead  man's  very  fear  was  evidence  to 
Sidney  Latimer's  mind  that  the  expected  visitant  could  be 
no  other  than  Strong  Mac.  For  Ewan  was  a  man  of 
powerful  physique — reputed  the  strongest  and  most 
dangerous  fighting  man  in  the  parish,  leaving  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch  out  of  the  question.  Who,  then,  was  there  for 
such  a  man  to  go  in  fear  of — save  the  man  who  had  set 
out  to  visit  him  on  that  last  night  of  April,  with  anger  in 
his  heart  and  a  grim  threat  on  his  lips. 

Then  all  suddenly  there  came  a  thought  across  the 
young  laird's  mind  which  caused  the  hot  blood  to  flush 
his  cheek.  With  Sandy  Ewan  dead,  and  Strong  Mac — 
well,  out  of  the  road — would  not  his  path  stand  clear  to 
Adora  Gracie — if  not  in  one  way,  why  then  in  another. 
Conscious  of  her  disgrace,  penniless,  outcast,  saddled  with 
a  drunken  incubus  of  a  father,  she  would  not  refuse — no, 
surely  she  could  not  refuse — all  that  he  had  to  offer  her. 
Sidney  Latimer  rose  hastily,  and  picking  up  his  hat,  went 
out  into  the  stable  to  saddle  his  horse.  It  is  always  in 
haste  that  a  good  man  does  a  thing  which  in  his  heart  he  is 
ashamed  of. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE   SECOND    KNIFE   THRUST. 

BUT  while  the  two  men,  Sidney  Latimer  and  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch,  stood  before  the  empty  schoolhouse  of  Lowran, 
while  Sandy  Ewan  made  his  preparations  of  fear,  while  in 
the  gaunt  library,  bare  of  books,  but  smelling  of  freshest 
varnish,  the  last  named  stood  face  to  face  with  Doom, 
while  he  lay  motionless,  his  clenched  hands  crisped  to  his 
side  with  the  tension  of  that  last  struggle  out  on  the  Glebe 
Road,  where  was  Adora  Gracie  ? 

To  the  other  mysterious  events  which  had  thrown  the 
two  parishes  of  Lowran  and  Kirkanders  into  a  ferment 
there  was  added  this  other — what  had  become  of  the 
Dominie  and  his  daughter  ?  Not  that  many  people  thought 
of  that.  To  have  an  unexplained  murder  and  an  unsus- 
pected murderer  at  large  in  one's  parish,  is  enough  to  pre- 
occupy most  people  of  quiet  country  habits. 

But  Sidney  Latimer  thought  of  it — also  his  mother. 

She  had  heard  her  son  let  himself  in  by  the  hall  door, 
and  was  on  the  way  down  to  make  an  inquiry — decided 
upon  as  she  descended  the  stairs — as  to  whether  he  pre- 
ferred goose-and-apple-sauce  or  cold-chicken-and-tongue 
for  his  dinner  on  the  morrow.  Anything  would  do.  But 
it  was  necessary  to  have  an  excuse  for  intruding  upon 
Sidney  in  the  strange  humour  which  had  lately  come  over 
him. 

But  she  was  saved  any  further  strain  upon  her  imagina- 
tion. While  she  was  still  on  the  first  landing  the  outer 
door  clanged,  and  all  that  remained  of  her  son  was  the 
impression  on  the  pillow  of  the  sofa  on  which  he  had 
hastily  thrown  himself  down,  and  as  hastily  quitted.  The 


THE   SECOND   KNIFE   THRUST         209 

flowered  silk  was  slowly  returning  to  its  rounded  shape, 
and  as  the  lady  of  the  Great  House  of  Lowran  stood  in  the 
doorway,  even  that  token  of  her  son's  presence  faded  away 
from  before  her  eyes.  She  opened  the  window  and  list- 
ened to  the  clatter  of  horse's  hoofs,  harsh  on  the  gravel, 
soft  over  the  grass.  Then  came  the  click  of  a  latch  lifted 
with  a  riding  crop,  an  impatient  word — the  hasty  anger  of 
a  man  rebuking  in  his  beast  the  restlessness  which  agitates 
himself.  To  these  followed  the  full  gathering  spring  with 
which  a  good  horse  takes  its  head  over  soft  ground. 

Mrs.  Latimer  listened  till  the  sound  of  hoofs  was  lost 
in  the  distance. 

"He  has  taken  the  moor  road,"  she  murmured  fearfully, 
as  she  closed  the  window ;  "in  that  direction  there  is  not  a 
house  or  a  cottage  within  three  miles.  If  the  murderer  is 
in  hiding  anywhere  in  the  parish,  it  will  be  there !" 

The  few  minutes  which  Sidney  Latimer  had  spent  in 
putting  the  graith  on  his  beast  had  given  him  time  to  alter 
his  first  intention.  He  had  been  resolved  to  go  to  St. 
Cuthbertstown,  and  there  to  divulge  all  that  he  knew  to 
the  authorities  with  regard  to  the  murder  of  Alexander 
Ewan.  He  believed  that  they  would  listen  to  him.  He 
could  substantiate  fact,  motive,  threat.  Indeed,  as  he  told 
himself  over  and  over  again,  he  held  Roy  McCulloch's 
death-warrant  in  his  hand. 

But  something — not  a  belief  in  his  rival's  innocence — 
held  him  back.  He  would  first  of  all  see  Strong  Mac  face 
to  face.  He  would  charge  him  with  his  crime,  and — yes, 
he  would,  perhaps,  give  him  a  chance  to  leave  the  coun- 
try, if  he  found  that  the  crime  had  been  committed  with- 
out premeditation  or  in  a  fit  of  sudden  anger. 

So  Sidney  Latimer  rode  towards  House  of  Muir 
by  the  road  which,  years  before,  had  been  opened  by 
the  broad-axes  of  Sharon  McCulloch  and  his  sons.  His 
thoughts  were  gloomy  within  him  as  he  urged  his  beast 
along.  Darkness  fell  while  he  was  still  out  on  the  wild 
breadths  of  Bennanbrack  moor.  A  brief  red  twilight  flar- 
ing in  the  west  had  soon  been  overcast  by  the  cloud  of 


210  STRONG    MAC 

night  which  shut  down  upon  it  like  a  gigantic  eyelid.  The 
road,  winding  through  league  upon  league  of  heather, 
shone  grey-white  under  his  horse's  feet.  The  boulders  on 
either  side  took  on  mysterious  shapes,  looming  up  indis- 
tinct and  uncanny,  each  fitted  to  shelter  a  crouching 
murderer. 

But  Sidney  Latimer  had  that  on  his  mind  which  was 
sufficient  to  banish  imaginary  fears.  He  was  going  to 
confront  and  accuse  a  real  murderer — secret,  strong, 
unsuspected  by  any  but  himself.  What  if  Strong  Mac 
were  to  repeat  the  blow  that  had  stretched  his  other  rival 
dead  at  his  feet,  and  so  suppress  the  only  possible  witness 
against  him!  The  thought  passed  across  Sidney  Lati- 
mer's  brain,  but  it  was  at  once  set  aside. 

"Soit!"  he  said,  "he  can  kill  me  if  he  likes !  But— I  will 
have  a  few  words  with  him  first." 

Sidney  Latimer  was  no  strong  man.  In  many  things  he 
was  no  better  than  the  average  of  his  class  and  of  his  time, 
but  at  least  the  soul  within  him  was  neither  little  nor  weak. 

At  the  corner  of  the  great  Barnbarroch  March  (where 
a  former  Chesney  Barwhinnock  had  been  killed  by  a  dis- 
charge of  his  own  gun)  Sidney  Latimer  heard  something 
move  among  the  stones  with  a  squeaking  noise  like  a 
weasel  in  a  dyke.  His  horse  shied,  and  Sidney,  whose 
temper  was  not  then  of  the  best,  gave  him  the  spur  fiercely. 
The  spirited  beast  bounded  forward,  and  as  they  passed  at 
full  speed  through  the  gap  in  the  high  march-dyke,  some- 
thing little  and  dark  sped  across  the  white  thread  of  the 
moorland  track,  almost  immediately  under  the  horse's 
feet. 

At  the  same  moment  Sidney  Latimer  heard  again  the 
same  strange  sound,  but  stronger  this  time — indeed  almost 
birdlike  in  its  keenness,  half  snarl,  half  cry,  which  mingled 
with  the  snort  of  his  frightened  animal.  The  horse,  also, 
instead  of  gradually  calming  down  to  a  steady  gait,  made 
a  series  of  wild  leaps  across  the  moor  at  right  angles  to  the 
path,  and,  turning  round,  presently  stood  still,  facing  the 
danger  and  trembling  in  every  limb. 


THE   SECOND   KNIFE   THRUST          211 

Sidney  dismounted,  patted  and  reassured  the  grey, 
which  blew  on  him  with  full  trembling  nostrils.  As  he 
stood  in  front  of  its  face,  he  felt  something  warm  and  wet 
drip  upon  his  knee.  He  put  down  his  hand — and  lo !  his 
fingers  encountered  the  unmistakable  gluey  touch  of  warm 
blood.  His  horse  had  been  wounded.  Though  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  clearly,  Latimer  felt  that  there  was  a  consid- 
erable wound  in  the  loose  skin  between  the  chest  and  the 
gullet.  For  the  moment  the  grey's  excitement  would 
permit  of  no  very  particular  examination,  but  it  was  clear 
to  Sidney  that  some  one  or  some  thing  lurked  on  the  moor 
over  which  he  had  passed,  at  once  dangerous  and  deadly. 

The  Barnbarroch  dyke  was  the  boundary  of  the  prop- 
erty of  the  McCullochs.  It  was  evident  that  the  danger, 
whether  for  him  or  for  any  intruder,  began  there.  Sidney 
Latimer  was  in  quandary.  To  go  on  was  to  beard  a  mur- 
derer in  his  chosen  place  of  defence — to  return  was  to  risk 
a  stab  from  the  same  weapon  which  had  already  wounded 
his  horse. 

There  were  few  things  which  touched  Sidney  Latimer 
more  than  that  an  animal  should  suffer.  He  therefore 
took  off  his  coat,  turned  it  inside  out,  and  by  means  of  the 
reins,  succeeded  in  extemporising  a  rough  dressing  for  the 
wound  which,  so  far  as  he  could  judge  of  it  in  the  dark- 
ness, staunched  the  flow  of  blood.  He  and  his  horse  were 
now  out  on  the  moor  away  from  the  path  which  led  to  the 
dwelling  house  of  the  McCullochs.  Sidney  was  not  the 
less  but  the  more  determined  to  visit  House  of  Muir  that 
night,  because  of  the  foul  attempt  that  had  been  made 
upon  him.  He  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  it  was 
with  intent  upon  the  life  of  the  rider  that  the  steel  had 
been  darted  upwards  in  such  dastardly  fashion. 

For  some  time  he  searched  about  for  a  tree  or  stone  to 
which  he  might  with  safety  attach  his  horse,  while  he 
continued  his  journey  on  foot.  Chance  guided  him  to  one 
of  the  common  "scroggy"  thorns — low,  twisted,  mis- 
begotten bushes,  their  branches  spread  abroad  like  the 
claws  of  crabs  and  apparently  as  ancient  as  the  peat-hags 


212  STRONG    MAC 

they  spring  from,  which  are  to  be  met  with  on  most  Gallo- 
way moors.  Having  found  one  then  he  fastened  his  horse 
to  it,  and  after  an  affectionate  pat  or  two,  set  out  over  the 
heather  in  the  direction  of  the  House  of  Muir. 

Sidney  Latimer  had  not  proceeded  far  when  he  heard  a 
noise  behind  him,  a  cry  of  fear  and  distress  almost  human. 
He  turned,  feeling  instinctively  for  a  weapon  to  defend 
himself  against  the  unknown  dangers  with  which  he 
seemed  to  be  surrounded.  He  found  nothing  except  his 
father's  riding  whip  with  the  heavily  loaded  handle,  which 
he  always  carried  at  night.  Sidney  hastily  twisted  the  lash 
about  his  wrist,  and  grasped  the  butt  by  its  thinner 
extremity. 

But  it  was  only  the  grey,  which,  desperate  at  being  left 
at  the  mercy  of  the  unseen  enemy  that  had  already 
wounded  it,  had  broken  the  fastening  and  now  sought 
his  master,  quivering  and  panting  as  if  after  a  long  race. 

For  a  moment  Sidney  Latimer  did  not  know  how  to 
proceed.  His  beast  was  wounded,  and  yet  would  not  be 
left  behind.  His  coat,  imperfectly  fastened  in  the  dark- 
ness, had  been  dropped  when  the  animal  reared  in  order 
to  snatch  itself  free  from  the  "scroggy  thorn."  Neverthe- 
less, something  drove  him  on,  perhaps  the  same  fatefulness 
which,  a  few  months  ago,  had  carried  Sandy  Ewan  to  his 
doom.  The  young  laird  put  out  his  hand  and  gently  felt 
his  horse's  wound.  He  decided  that  it  was  either  ex- 
tremely superficial  or  that  the  cold  of  the  night  had 
stopped  the  bleeding.  At  all  events,  little  was  now  escap- 
ing from  the  cut. 

The  windows  of  the  House  of  Muir  were  now  before 
him,  bright  upon  the  long  level  horizon.  He  could  count 
them.  Two  were  illuminated,  one  slightly  so,  while 
a  door  opened  and  shut,  now  completely  obscured, 
now  sending  a  sudden  flood  of  light  over  the  surface 
of  the  moor. 

It  was  strange  how  as  Sidney  Latimer  approached  the 
dwellings  of  men,  both  his  own  excitement  and  that  of  his 
steed  died  down.  The  smell  of  habitation  and  the  vicinity 


THE   SECOND   KNIFE   THRUST          213 

of  creatures,  human  and  domesticated,  calmed  his 
nerves  as  well  as  those  of  the  frightened  animal.  In- 
stead of  requiring  constant  attention  and  handling,  the 
grey  now  dropped  behind  with  patient  docility,  as  if 
ashamed  of  his  previous  behaviour.  Nor  did  he  make 
any  objections  when  his  master  fastened  him  to  the  ring- 
bolt of  the  "louping-on  stone"  at  the  gable-end  of  the 
onstead  of  House  of  Muir.  As  was  almost  universal  in 
Galloway,  this  was  a  large  boulder,  to  which  generations 
of  horses  had  been  tied,  and  where  for  ages  the  women  of 
the  family  had  mounted  behind  their  lords  ere  they  took 
their  douce  and  legal  way  to  kirk  and  market. 

Sidney  Latimer  clearly  understood  the  risks  of  what  he 
was  about  to  do.  But  now  he  could  not  go  back  without 
qualifying  as  a  coward  in  his  own  eyes.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  speak  with  Roy  McCulloch — if  possible,  alone 
and  without  giving  him  time  to  consult  his  father.  As  he 
came  nearer,  it  seemed  as  if  there  was  company  at  the 
House  of  Muir.  He  could  hear  the  sound  of  several 
voices.  Some  irresistible  impulse  took  him  past  the  door 
in  the  direction  of  the  window,  through  which  the  light 
streamed  most  brightly. 

Now  at  House  of  Muir  few  sacrifices  to  external  adorn- 
ment had  been  made,  and  save  where  the  dyke  of  the 
potato  garden  cut  a  hard  rectangle  out  of  the  home  parks, 
the  grass  and  heather  ran  right  up  to  the  whitewashed 
walls  of  the  long  low  dwelling  house. 

Upon  these  Sidney  Latimer's  feet  made  no  noise,  and 
presently  he  stood  on  the  soft  green  turf  under  the  drip 
of  the  eaves.  He  looked  within,  feeling  all  the  while  like 
a  criminal  himself — and  not  at  all  like  a  man  who  had 
come  out  to  denounce  a  man-slayer. 

The  young  man  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes  when  he 
looked  through  the  imperfect  green  whirlpools  which 
served  for  glass.  Yet  what  he  saw  was  plain  enough. 
What  he  had  expected  to  see  as  he  rode  across  the  moor 
was  a  couple  of  haggard  men,  conscious  of  their  crime, 
bandying  mutual  recriminations,  or  at  least  the  younger 


214  STRONG    MAC 

and  less  hardened  pacing  to  and  fro,  or  sitting  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  in  the  grip  of  an  accusing  conscience. 
But  whatever  was  the  secret  Terror  that  lurked  about  the 
house  of  Sharon  McCulloch,  whatever  the  Thing  of  Evil 
which  had  struck  up  at  him  so  treacherously  at  the  Dykes 
of  Barnbarroch,  it  was  clear  in  a  moment  that  its  influence 
did  not  reach  to  the  kitchen  into  which  the  Laird  of  Low- 
ran  was  now  looking  as  an  Israelitish  spy  might  have 
looked  into  the  Promised  Land. 

Sidney  Latimer  saw  before  him  a  lighted  kitchen,  smil- 
ing contentment,  a  girl  moving  easily  about  performing 
the  little  duties  of  domestic  work  with  the  facility 
of  long  practice.  An  old  man  sat  at  the  fireside  with  a 
book  in  his  hand.  A  younger  arranged  a  lamp  that 
the  light  might  fall  better  upon  the  printed  page.  Such 
a  scene  of  cheerful  domesticity  he  had  not  seen  for  many 
a  day,  yet  the  very  reason  of  Sidney  Latimer  seemed  to 
totter  on  its  throne  as  he  stood  there.  If  he  had  not  leaned 
against  the  wall,  he  would  assuredly  have  fallen.  For  the 
girl  who  moved  about  so  lightly  and  with  so  well-accus- 
tomed a  step  was  none  other  than  Adora  Gracie ! 

******* 

Hastily,  as  if  taken  in  a  meanness,  Sidney  shrank  away 
into  the  darkness.  He  had  seen  enough  and  more.  Mur- 
derer or  not,  Roy  McCulloch  was  now  for  ever  free  from 
any  word  of  his.  He  could  not  speak  now.  If  he  did,  he 
would  feel  himself  worse  than  Sandy  Ewan  when  he  de- 
coyed the  old  Dominie  to  his  fate  on  the  day  of  the  exami- 
nation. 

Sidney  Latimer  knew  the  facility  of  the  law  of  Scot- 
land with  regard  to  marriage,  and  he  did  not  doubt  for  a 
moment  that  Adora  Gracie,  situated  as  she  was,  burdened 
with  the  care  of  her  father,  had  gone  straight  to  House 
of  Muir,  where  at  least  she  was  sure  of  welcome  and  an 
open  door.  Then,  when  Roy  came  back,  with  whatever  of 
guilt  upon  his  hands,  there  was  no  doubt  that  Adora  had 
married  him,  were  it  only  out  of  gratitude.  So  Latimer 
reasoned  with  himself. 


THE   SECOND   KNIFE   THRUST          215 

The  young  man  stood  by  his  wounded  horse  in  the 
darkness,  stricken  also.  From  the  house  there  came  to  his 
ears  the  sound  of  laughter.  Sidney  loosened  the  rope  from 
the  iron  ring  and  moved  away  quietly,  as  if  ashamed  of  his 
mission. 

No,  there  could  be  no  doubt — none!  Adora's  whole 
carriage,  her  assured  step,  was  that  of  a  house  mistress. 
The  Dominie,  her  father,  was  seated  by  the  fire  reading  his 
book.  Roy,  by  his  side,  arranged  the  lamp  with  filial 
solicitude.  Adora  and  Roy  had  exchanged  glances  over 
his  head — ah,  the  inwardness  of  these  glances  took  Sidney 
Latimer  by  the  throat ! 

A  sudden  wild  access  of  rage  took  hold  of  him.  The 
murderer — the  man  with  the  guilt  of  blood  on  his  hands — 
to  have  that  for  his  reward !  He  too  would  go  back  and 
— end  it  or  himself  be  ended.  Fool !  What  good  would 
that  do?  He  had  seen  the  girl's  smile — the  first  perfectly 
happy  smile  he  had  ever  seen  on  her  lips !  That  she  loved 
the  man  there  was  no  doubt !  Well  ?  Well — ? 

Yes,  he  knew.  He  had  it  in  his  power  to  shatter  this 
happiness,  as  an  earthen  pitcher  is  shattered  with  an  iron 
bar.  Between  them  and  that  new-found  love  of  theirs  he 
would  dangle  the  hangman's  rope. 

So  out  on  the  ghastly  solitary  moor,  scaring  the  wild- 
fowl and  the  black-faced  sheep,  Sidney  Latimer  raved,  his 
beast,  whose  own  trouble  had  abated,  pushing  against  him 
at  times  with  moist,  anxious  nose,  warning  him  to  begone 
from  a  neighbourhood  so  dangerous  to  honest  horses. 
But  gradually  the  meanness  of  causing  a  woman  to  suffer 
because  of  his  private  disappointment  worked  upon  his 
spirit. 

"Who  am  I,"  he  asked  himself,  "that  I  should  lay  an  in- 
formation against  Roy  McCulloch?  I,  who  at  this  very 
moment,  feel  my  hands  a-tremble  with  desire  to  kill!  I 
know  my  own,  but  do  I  know  Roy  McCulloch's  provoca- 
tion? Let  me  get  away — away — never  to  return!" 

So  forgetting  everything  but  the  desire  to  put  a  great 
distance  between  himself  and  this  fatal  house,  he  leaped 


216  STRONG    MAC 

upon  his  beast,  and  the  frightened  animal,  partaking  of  the 
feelings  of  his  master,  struck  through  the  moor  at  speed. 
Soon  they  were  at  the  Dykes  of  Barnbarroch.  This  time 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  Indeed,  there  was  little 
chance  for  they  passed  like  a  flash,  Sidney  pulling  the 
reins  away  from  the  turn  of  the  road  which  led  towards 
Lowran  and  home.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  face  his 
mother's  anxious  assiduities  that  night.  She  would  be 
waiting  for  him.  Of  that  he  had  no  doubt.  She  would 
have  a  thousand  questions  to  ask.  He  would  ride  down 
towards  the  sea — find  a  little  coaching  inn  on  the  Stran- 
raer  road  and  there  abide  the  night — nay,  perhaps  longer, 
till  he  had  thought  things  over  and  decided  what  it  was 
best  for  him  to  do. 

He  struck  into  the  sea  road.  His  beast  moved  easily, 
seemingly  less  tired  than  before.  It  was  the  dark  time  just 
before  the  birth  of  the  dawn.  He  threw  the  reins  down  on 
the  grey's  neck,  and  master  and  horse  plunged  blindly  into 
the  unknown. 

How  long  they  wandered  thus,  lost  to  direction,  straying 
anywhither,  cannot  now  be  known.  The  world  had  come 
sharply  to  an  end  for  Sidney  Latimer.  His  mouth  was 
shut.  The  girl  he  loved  was  bound  body  and  soul  to  a 
man  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  murderer !  What  mattered 
anything  any  more? 

The  air  grew  fresher — more  salt  upon  the  lips  and  in 
the  nostrils.  They  were  descending  from  the  moorlands 
towards  the  little  ports  which  dot  the  shore  line  of  Gallo- 
way here  and  there — the  Lake,  the  Scaur,  Balearic,  Port 
Mary,  Portowarren.  But  Sidney  Latimer  paid  no  heed  to 
his  going.  His  heart  was  too  exceeding  bitter  within  him, 
and  as  for  his  beast,  he  only  hung  a  weary  head  and  weakly 
kept  four  grey  feet  moving. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  ground,  as  in  a  dream,  armed  shapes 
rose  all  about  the  young  man.  He  was  pulled  from  his 
saddle  to  find  himself  in  the  thick  of  a  fierce  combat.  A 
blow  was  stricken  which  stunned  him,  and  he  was  thrown 
hastily  along  with  several  others  into  the  bottom  of  a  boat. 


THE   SECOND   KNIFE   THRUST          217 

"That  does  the  night's  work !"  cried  a  voice,  "give  way 
there !" 

******* 

The  next  morning  what  a  crying  of  men  there  was 
athwart  all  the  country.  The  young  Laird  of  Lowran  had 
been  assassinated  by  the  McCullochs,  the  poachers  of 
House  of  Muir.  His  coat,  all  bloody  and  turned  inside  out, 
had  been  found  on  their  property.  His  footsteps  had  been 
found  and  measured,  at  their  very  gable-end.  His  riding 
whip  was  lying  at  their  "louping-on  stone."  There  were 
signs  of  a  struggle  at  the  Barnbarroch  marches.  His 
horse,  wounded  and  (some  said  dying)  had  been  found 
straying  on  the  cliffs  near  the  Gate  House  of  Cally. 
Happily  both  of  the  murderers  were  in  custody,  after  a 
desperate  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  younger,  a  dan- 
gerous character  who  had  been  recently  released  from 
gaol. 

The  motive,  of  course,  was  jealousy.  Young  men  will 
be  young  men.  The  disgraced  Dominie's  daughter  of 
Lowran  was  actually  at  the  time  in  the  house  of  the  cul- 
prits, and  the  Laird  had  gone  to  see  her.  Hence  the  quar- 
rel, and  the  murder  to  follow.  All  was  rounded,  clear, 
complete.  And  upon  the  killing  of  Sandy  Ewan,  also, 
light,  lurid  and  sudden,  seemed  to  break.  Dickie  Dick  and 
his  friend  recalled  to  themselves  with  curious  unanimity 
and  were  read  to  swear  (did,  in  fact,  so  take  oath)  that  the 
voice  which  they  had  heard  in  their  master's  room  on  the 
night  of  the  murder  of  Sandy  Ewan  upon  the  Glebe  Road, 
was  none  other  than  that  of  Roy  McCulloch ! 

Bands  of  men  (so  ran  the  report)  were  out  everywhere 
searching  for  the  body  of  the  murdered  laird — which, 
strangely  enough,  had  not  yet  been  found.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  McCullochs  were  safe  in  the  gaol  of  St.  Cuth- 
bertstown,  under  lock  and  key — and  well  for  them  that  it 
was  so !  For  the  countryside  was  up  and  they  would  have 
had  an  excellent  chance  of  being  torn  to  pieces.  Among 
other  things,  the  girl — the  first  cause  of  all — had  gotten 
her  deserts.  Ah,  she  had  long  been  known  to  sundry  good 
Christian  people  for  what  she  was !  They  had  always  said 


218  STRONG    MAC 

so!  Perhaps  some  one  would  listen  to  them  next 
time! 

She  and  her  drunken  father  had  been  turned  to  the  door 
of  House  of  Muir  by  the  officers  of  the  law.  It  had  been 
asked  of  her  if  she  could  show  any  proof  of  a  legal  right  to 
remain  where  she  was,  and  when  she  could  not  or  would 
not  answer,  she  and  her  father  had  found  themselves  upon 
the  heather.  "And  serve  them  right,"  cried  these  same 
apocalyptic  Christian  folk,  who  are  for  ever  pouring  out 
vials  and  blowing  trumpets  over  their  neighbours'  misfor- 
tunes. "If  all  such  were  put  in  prison,  the  country  would 
be  the  better!"  And  at  this  point  large  quotations  were 
made  from  the  early  chapters  of  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon, 
son  of  David,  king  in  Israel — who  certainly  ought  to  have 
known  what  he  was  talking  about. 

Thus  the  House  of  Muir,  which  but  yesternight  had 
been  so  bright,  filled  from  end  to  end  with  light  and  life 
and  the  joy  of  seemingly  settled  happiness,  was  in  a  mo- 
ment left  desolate.  And  down  in  the  Great  House  of  Low- 
ran  there  were  two  women  who  mourned  also,  both  one 
and  also  the  other  of  them,  as  for  an  only  son. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

OUT   OF   GOOD EVIL. 

WHEN  Sidney  Latimer  left  the  lighted  window  of  the 
House  of  Muir  he  gave  up  all  thought  of  denouncing  Roy 
McCulloch.  This  seemed  a  true  and  worthy  thing  to  do, 
yet  had  he  contrived  the  worst  possible  against  Roy  and 
Adora,  the  young  laird  could  not  have  played  the  devil's 
game  better  than  by  doing  as  he  did.  So  mysterious  is  the 
train  of  consequences  which  follows  every  action,  however 
trivial,  that  we  suffer  (and  make  others  suffer)  as 
often  and  as  severely  for  our  well-intentioned  as  for  our 
evil  deeds.  Doubtless  there  are  compensations,  but  the 
fact  remains.  The  philosophy  of  "Be  good  and  you  will 
get  a  lump  of  sugar !  be  bad,  and  you  will  get  nasty  medi- 
cine" is  untrue  to  the  facts  of  life. 

So  many-tongued  rumour,  flying  from  door  to  door, 
lifting  the  latch,  and  shouting  an  amended  and  re-edited 
tale  into  every  house,  spoke  more  truly  than  usual  when  it 
represented  Adora  and  her  father  as  having  been  turned 
out  upon  the  waste  after  the  capture  of  the  McCullochs 
by  the  crowd  of  several  hundred  men  from  all  parts  which 
suddenly  invaded  the  solitudes  of  House  of  Muir. 

How  Adora  came  to  be  there  at  all  may  be  told  in  a  few 
words.  It  chanced  that  Sharon  McCulloch,  stern,  sober- 
faced  old  ex-smuggler,  whom  no  Examination  Presby- 
terial  could  for  a  moment  have  drawn  a  yard  from  his 
door,  had  business  in  the  village  of  Lowran  on  the  day 
when  Sandy  Ewan's  trick  was  being  spoken  of,  and  even 
laughed  over  at  the  bar  of  Lucky  Greentree's  public  house. 

Sharon  was  making  ready  for  his  homeward  ride,  and 


220  STRONG   MAC 

as  a  last  precaution  he  always  tossed  over  his  throat  a  tass 
of  brandy  to  the  good  of  the  house.  He  stood  tall  and 
erect,  fingering  the  pewter  in  which  his  half  mutchkin  had 
been  served  to  him.  Silently  he  listened  to  the  tale — how 
in  this  very  room  the  Dominie  had  been  made  to  drink  till 
he  could  not  see,  Sandy  Ewan  plying  him  with  liquor  skil- 
fully all  the  while.  Then  the  hanger-on  aforesaid,  who  re- 
lated the  instructive  apologue  with  some  humour,  told  how 
he  had  "oxtered"  Donald  Gracie  to  his  own  school-door, 
and  there  listened  till  at  the  proper  moment,  carefully 
waited  for,  Sandy  Ewan  had  pushed  him  "in  amang  a'  the 
ministers !" 

Sterner  and  greyer  each  moment  stood  Sharon  McCul- 
loch,  gripping  his  whip  tighter  in  his  hand,  till,  at  the 
climax,  he  astonished  the  company  by  reaching  over  a 
huge  hand  for  the  narrator.  Without  a  word  of  explana- 
tion or  apology  he  dragged  him  over  the  table  into  the 
open,  where  he  lashed  him  fierce  and  long,  at  last  flinging 
the  tale-bearer  on  the  ground,  whimpering  like  the  hound 
he  was. 

Then  the  master  of  House  of  Muir  made  a  little  speech 
to  the  company  and  departed — to  look  for  Sandy  Ewan. 
Happily  instead,  he  found  Adora  Gracie.  And  then,  at 
the  sight  of  the  girl's  desolation,  the  stern-faced  old  law- 
breaker had  melted  completely. 

"For  my  boy's  sake — for  my  loneliness'  sake — come!" 
he  had  bidden  her.  "There  is  an  empty  hoose,  but  a 
warm,  warm  welcome  up  on  the  muirs !" 

Thus  it  was  that,  while  Roy  lay  fretting  in  the  gaol  at 
St.  Cuthbertstown,  there  had  come  into  his  father's  house, 
in  all  good  liking  and  free  will,  the  one  thing  he  had  most 
despaired  of  seeing  there. 

Upon  his  return,  Adora  had  met  his  triumphant  sur- 
prise and  rejoicing  with  quiet  thankfulness  and  gratitude. 
She  had  never  doubted  such  an  ending  to  his  imprison- 
ment. But  she  found  so  much  that  needed  doing  in  the 
House  of  Muir,  that  even  Roy's  advent  made  no  great 
change  in  her  mode  of  life.  Sharon  McCulloch,  grave  and 
reserved  as  ever,  walked  by  her  side  every  evening — he 


OUT  OF  GOOD— EVIL  221 

or  his  son,  but  on  the  whole,  most  frequently  Sharon. 
Their  path  always  led  them  towards  the  high  angle  of  the 
property — the  apex  of  the  triangle  near  which  was  a  cairn 
on  a  little  heathery  knoll.  Sharon  did  not  look  that  way, 
but  instead  gazed  absent-mindedly  into  the  sunset.  He 
never  spoke  of  the  wife  whom  he  had  found  there 
dead  upon  his  return  from  market.  But  the  mere  compan- 
ionship of  the  young  girl  by  his  side  somehow  softened 
and  warmed  Sharon  McCulloch,  so  that  on  coming  in,  Roy 
would  often  notice  a  difference  in  his  father — something 
about  his  face  that  he  had  never  remarked  there  be- 
fore, which  was  doubtless  the  resurrection  of  the  young 
man  who  in  a  certain  old  summer  walked  these  hills  of 
heather  with  another  girl  as  beautiful  and  as  young. 

Indeed  it  seemed  as  if  at  times  Sharon  himself  forgot. 
For  on  one  occasion,  after  a  long  period  of  silence,  he 
turned  upon  Adora  with  the  question,  "But  where  have 
you  left  the  boys  so  long?" 

Then,  instantly  recollecting  himself,  he  added,  sharply 
for  him  in  these  days,  "I  think  we  had  better  go  in !" 


Upon  which  all  suddenly,  breaking  into  this  life  of  peace 
and  happiness,  there  had  arrived  a  howling  furious  mob, 
led  by  Jonathan  Grier.  Then  Adora  had  seen  Roy,  an  an- 
gered Roy,  a  Roy  whom  she  had  never  seen,  fighting  for 
his  life,  striking  down  one  after  the  other  till  at  last  he 
was  mastered  by  numbers.  Then  the  house  which  she  had 
begun  to  beautify  and  care  for  was  put  to  sack — the  fur- 
niture flung  out  of  the  window,  the  panelled  walls  of  the 
chambers  torn  down  under  guise  of  search  for  evidence. 
After  that,  the  officers  of  the  law  came,  taking  a  kind  of 
possession,  who  posed  her  with  hateful  questions. 

"Would  she  bear  witness  to  this  ?  Had  she  been  present 
at  that?  What  was  her  position  in  the  household?  By 
what  right  was  she  there  ?" 

And  so,  as  it  was  succinctly  enough  stated  in  the 
popular  report,  she  and  her  drunken  father  had  been 
turned  out  upon  the  heather. 


222  STRONG    MAC 

The  Lowland  Scots — the  Scots  of  Galloway  in 
especial,  are  a  kind-hearted  folk.  So  it  has  been  said  and 
sung  of  them,  and  it  is  true.  But  students  of  national 
manners  know  that  upon  occasion  such  a  kind-hearted 
folk  can  be  more  cruel  than  many  a  people  whom  the 
world  holds  habit-and-repute  for  savagery. 

The  Laird  of  Lowran  was  popular.  His  family  had  been 
"weel-likit"  for  generations  before  him.  Much  was  ex- 
pected of  the  young  man,  when  once  he  had  wedded  "a 
suitable  person,"  and  emancipated  himself  thoroughly  from 
the  yoke  of  his  mother,  who,  in  spite  of  her  forty  years' 
residence  in  Lowran,  was  still  looked  upon  as  an  incomer 
and  "nae  real  Latimer." 

On  the  other  hand,  Adora  Gracie,  save  with  a  limited 
number  of  the  younger  men  (and  Aline),  could  hardly  be 
said  to  be  popular.  She  was  too  pretty  and  her  tongue  was 
somewhat  oversharp.  Moreover,  she  was  supposed  to 
hold  her  head  too  high  for  her  position.  Which  is,  in 
Galloway,  one  of  the  cardinal  sins.  Then  the  sheep-steal- 
ing, the  killing  of  Sandy  Ewan,  and  the  disappearance  of 
the  young  laird  were  all,  in  the  "giff-gaff"  of  old  wives' 
clatter,  clearly  traceable  to  the  inexplicable  attraction 
which  foolish  young  men  feel  for  such  "creatures." 

As  Mistress  Girnwood  said  very  judiciously  to  her  gos- 
sip Mistress  Tod  Lowrie,  the  senior  baillie's  wife  of  Cairn 
Edward,  as  she  put  an  extra  "cinder"  in  her  tea,  "If  I  had 
my  way,  it's  her  that  should  hang  for  it !" 

When  Adora  took  her  departure  from  the  door  of  the 
House  of  Muir  it  was  a  typical  September  day,  clear  and 
dry — not  warm,  but  with  that  grip  in  the  air  that  wins  the 
com  on  the  rigs,  sets  the  stooks  a-rustling,  and  rejoices 
the  heart  of  the  farmer.  Beneath  her  eye  lay  the  little 
hard-won  gussets  of  plough-land  which  Roy  had  laid  into 
furrows  for  Sharon  to  sow,  his  tall,  gaunt  figure  looking 
Biblical  in  its  girding  of  sackcloth,  from  the  cross  folds  of 
which  he  swung  the  grain  abroad  in  alternate  handfuls. 
Farther  yont,  Adora's  eye  fell  on  the  knoll  where  Sharon 
had  seen  a  woman  sit  as  if  asleep,  being  dead. 

So  taking  her  worse-than-dead  in  her  hand,  Adora  went 


OUT   OF   GOOD— EVIL  223 

slowly  about  the  corner  of  the  barn.  Certain  of  the  baser 
sort,  the  slack-water  of  the  ruffian  tide  of  the  morning, 
jeered  at  them  through  the  open  doorway.  And  there  was 
no  strong  Roy  now  to  fell  the  insulter  with  a  blow,  nor  a 
stern  Sharon  fitly  to  lay  whip-lash  where  it  ought  to  lie. 
But  Adora,  taking  her  father  by  the  hand,  led  him  a  little 
about  so  that  he  might  not  hear.  She  herself  was  not 
much  cast  down,  for  she  hugged  closer  to  her  heart  that 
eternal  right  of  the  down-trodden — the  appeal  from 
earthly  injustice  to  the  high  universal  Caesar  who  sits  in 
the  heavens,  who  cannot  do  other  than  judge  justly. 

To  the  eye  of  sense  it  was  a  sad  little  procession  enough 
— the  girl  leading  the  broken-down  old  man  by  the  hand. 
For  Donald  Gracie,  suddenly  divorced  from  his  life's  work, 
fretted  like  a  child  that  he  was  once  more  compelled  to  re- 
move from  surroundings  that  suited  him  so  well. 

"Adora,  I  have  over  and  over  endeavoured  to  impress 
upon  you/'  he  reiterated  complainingly  as  they  took  their 
way  down  the  hill,  "that  I  refuse  to  return  to  the  school  of 
Lowran  parish,  where  I  was  treated  with  such  disrespect. 
At  least  Dr.  Meiklewham  shall  apologise  to  me  in  the 
presence  of  the  scholars,  before  I  will  consent  to  give  a 
single  lesson  there.  The  Presbytery  shall  apologise !  And 
I  cannot  help  thinking,  Adora,  that  it  argues  a  certain  lack 
of  consideration  for  your  father's  feelings,  that  you  insist 
upon  taking  him  back  to  a  place  of  so  many  painful 
memories !" 

"We  are  not  going  to  the  schoolhouse,  father,"  the  girl 
answered,  with  some  of  the  apathy  which  accompanies 
great  sorrow. 

"Then  may  I  ask  why/'  cried  the  Dominie  shrilly,  "have 
we  left  yonder  most  comfortable  domicile,  pertaining  to 
my  excellent  friend  and  late  pupil?  His  father  seems  a 
very  superior  man — though  he  had  finished  his  schooling 
before  I  came  to  the  district.  And,  though  never  cordial, 
Mr.  McCulloch,  Senior,  appeared  to  desire  our  company. 
Also,  though  I  cannot  expect  it  to  weigh  with  you,  I  must 
point  out  that  the  mountain  air  agreed  with  me.  I  would 
not  for  the  world  say  anything  hurtful  to  your  feelings — 


224  STRONG   MAC 

but  I  think  you  will  admit  that  these  frequent  changes  of 
plan  are  not  dictated  by  those  thoughtful  and  unselfish 
considerations  which  I  have  the  right  to  expect  from  an 
only  daughter." 

To  this  the  girl  answered  nothing.  Her  heart  was  too 
sore  within  her.  She  merely  adjusted  her  arm  so  that  the 
old  man  might  lean  more  heavily  upon  it,  guiding  him  over 
the  rough  places  of  the  way  with  a  tenderness  surprising 
in  one  so  quick  and  brusque.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
wandering  wits  of  the  Dominie  took  up  a  new  aspect  of 
the  subject. 

"I  fear  much  that  I  have  been  over-lenient  with  you, 
Adora,"  he  began  again,  tapping  with  his  stick  on  the 
hard  roadway.  "It  has  been  borne  in  upon  me  lately  that 
I  ought  to  have  been  more  strict.  I  have  given  you  your 
own  way  too  long — as  God  forgive  me,  in  my  youth  I  took 
mine — I  mean  in  matters  of  the  heart!  But  I  am  per- 
suaded that  I  have  gone  too  far  in  submitting  to 
your  girl's  whimsies.  There  was,  for  instance,  that  excel- 
lent young  man,  Alexander  Ewan.  Had  you  taken  your 
father's  advice,  a  world  of  trouble  would  have  been  spared. 
Even  you  cannot  deny  that.  And  now  again,  after  some 
time  in  this  well-plenished  and  most  comfortable  house — 
not  that  it  is  a  mansion,  but  a  very  respectable  and  yeo- 
manly  dwelling,  where  my  comforts  have  been  attended  to 
and  my  wishes  studied — we  find  ourselves  turned  out  be- 
cause you  would  not,  in  time,  make  up  your  mind  to  wed 
the  young  man  of  the  house,  my  old  pupil  and  good  friend, 
Roy  McCulloch !" 

Adora  held  her  peace,  steadily  pursuing  her  way. 

"This  is  the  more  surprising  that  you  yourself  held  con- 
stantly by  his  innocence.  You  would  hear  no  other  word, 
even  from  your  own  father.  And  that  being  so,  and  your 
feelings  evidently  engaged,  it  would  have  regularised  our 
presence  in  the  house  if  you  had  been  married  to  him,  even 
according  to  the  irregular  Scots  method,  which  (though 
good  in  law  and  binding  upon  parties)  as  Clerk  of  the 
Kirk  Session  of  Lowran  parish  I  have  always  thought  it 
my  duty  to  discountenance.  Still,  there  are  cases — and 


OUT   OF  GOOD— EVIL  225 

this  is  one  of  them.  As  Roy  McCulloch's  wife  we  could 
not  have  been  dispossessed  of  our  honourable  position  and 
downsitting  at  House  of  Muir.  We  would  have  remained 
to  take  care  of  the  young  man's  property,  and  whatever 
happened  we  should  have  been  provided  for — ." 

"Oh,  father,"  cried  the  girl,  at  last  losing  patience,  "you 
do  not  understand  what  you  say.  I  am  not  married  to 
Roy  McCulloch.  I  have  no  intention  of  marrying  Roy 
McCulloch.  Roy  McCulloch  respected  my  position  too 
much  while  I  was  under  his  father's  roof  ever  to  ask  me  to 
marry  him." 

The  old  man  stood  still  and  shook  a  tremulous  staff  at 
the  girl.  "Ah,"  he  quavered,  "you  must  not  try  to  deceive 
an  old  dog — yes,  an  old  dog.  There  has  been  love- 
making  going  on.  I  have  watched.  You  thought  me  deep 
in  Virgil — and  Virgil,  young  lady,  is  the  finest  of  all  poets 
— that  I  will  ever  uphold.  But,  because  of  the  Mantuan, 
the  father's  eyes  were  not  blind  nor  his  ears  deaf.  There 
was  lovemaking  going  on — with  young  Laird  Lowran, 
with  that  softish  lout  Jock  Fairies,  and  in  especial  with 
Roy  McCulloch.  Moreover,  did  he  not  always  come  the 
latest,  bide  the  longest,  and  did  you  not  always  see  him  to 
the  gate  ?  Ah,  Adora,  the  old  man  has  not  been  so  short- 
sighted as  you  gave  him  credit  for." 

Thus  the  Dominie  went  maundering  on,  Adora  holding 
him  by  the  hand,  drowned  in  the  bitterness  of  her  own 
thoughts,  yet  ever  and  anon  rebuking  herself  for  her  irri- 
tation at  her  father's  folly,  till  the  forlorn  pair  came  to 
the  march-dyke  of  Barnbarroch.  It  was,  even  in  daylight, 
a  strange  wild  place — a  dip  between  two  boulder-strewn 
moors,  the  heather  growing  breast-high  among  the  stones, 
one  jagged  pinnacle  of  rocks  looking  down  like  a  watch- 
man over  a  conventicle,  and  beneath,  the  white  thread  of 
the  mountain  road  wimpling  from  verge  to  verge  like  a 
flicked  whiplash. 

The  gate,  dragged  from  its  hinges,  probably  by  some  of 
the  mischievous  spirits  among  the  rout  which  that  morn- 
ing had  poured  up  towards  the  House  of  Muir,  lay  broad- 
side across  a  heap  of  stones,  the  debris  of  some  rough 


226  STRONG   MAC 

road-making  operation,  long  ago  interrupted  and  never 
again  proceeded  with. 

Cross-legged  upon  this  a  boy  sat  sobbing  bitterly — a 
boy  in  a  man's  coat  three  or  four  inches  too  big  for  him 
every  way.  He  wore  a  ragged  pair  of  breeches,  but  his 
legs  and  feet  were  bare.  A  recent  tear  or  wound  showed 
an  irregular  red  edge  across  one  brown  and  freckled  calf. 
As  the  two  pilgrims  approached,  the  boy  alternately 
staunched  the  bleeding  and  wiped  his  wet  eyes  with  a 
large  blue  Kilmarnock  bonnet,  the  result  of  the  double 
operation  fairly  passing  the  power  of  pen  to  describe.  At 
first  Adora  did  not  notice  him.  She  was  immersed  in  her 
own  heart  bitterness.  It  was  the  old  school-master,  with 
the  instinct  of  a  lifetime  where  youth  was  concerned,  who 
observed  the  boy.  He  was  certainly  in  trouble,  probably, 
therefore,  a  culprit. 

He  turned  about  stiffly  so  that  he  might  face  the  seated 
figure,  pointing  with  his  stick  to  the  wound. 

"Here,  boy,"  he  said,  authoritatively,  "stop  crying. 
And  tell  me  who  did  that?" 

The  boy  lifted  his  tear-stained  face,  and  then,  even 
through  the  streaking  and  the  swelling  about  the  eyes,  his 
identity  could  not  be  hid. 

"What,  Daid  McRobb !"  cried  Adora,  for  the  moment 
forgetting  that  for  her  there  were  no  more  roll-calls  while 
the  world  should  last,  "what  are  you  doing  here  at  this 
hour — and  like  that  ?" 

And  sure  enough  Daid  McRobb  it  was  who  presently 
stood  up  shamefacedly,  trying  to  conceal  the  hurt  on  his 
calf  with  his  broad  bonnet.  Finding  himself  before  the 
Dominie,  the  boy  endeavored  to  stop  sobbing,  with  this  of 
success  that  he  gave  himself  hiccough  instead.  But 
curiously,  the  result  was  in  no  way  comic. 

"Why  are  you  not  at  school?"  began  the  old  Dominie 
in  his  flogging  voice. 

"Father!"  said  Adora,  touching  him  with  her  elbow. 

"Ah,  I  forgot,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  mean  what  are  you 
doing  there  with  that — that  wound  on  your  leg?" 


OUT   OF   GOOD— EVIL  227 

"Oh,  that!  It's  nocht— "  said  Daid,  with  a  gasp, 
"nocht  ava'.  I  never  noticed  it.  I  think  I  fell — on  the 
edge  of  my  tin  can."  (His  eye,  having  lighted  upon  this 
last,  perhaps  suggested  the  explanation.) 

But  the  old  Dominie  had  his  method. 

"Answer  my  question,  boy !"  he  said,  sternly,  with  his 
stick  in  the  air,  "this  minute — who  did  it?" 

"D'ye  think  I  was  greetin'  for  that — ?"  cried  Daid,  in- 
dignantly; "man,  I  wad  tak'  that  three  times  i'  the  day 
and  never  whinge.  It's  for  what  they  hae  dune  to  him." 

"To  your  father?"  said  Adora,  instantly  forgetting  her 
own  sorrow  in  sympathy  with  another;  "why,  what  has 
happened  to  your  father?" 

"My  f dither!" 

Voice  of  human  creature  never  expressed  more  of  con- 
tempt and  bitterness  than  did  that  of  Daid  McRobb  in 
these  three  syllables. 

"Greet  for  my  faither — "  he  repeated;  "he  micht  cut 
me  into  bittocks  and  throw  me  into  the  water  for  ged- 
bait,  but  he  couldna  gar  me  greet." 

"But  you  have  been  with  his  dinner !"  said  Adora,  point- 
ing to  the  can. 

"Ow  aye — he's  my  faither!"  said  Daid,  simply  for  all 
explanation,  "I'm  no  deny  in'  that." 

He  looked  about  him  as  he  spoke  and  rubbed  the 
wounded  calf  surreptitiously  on  the  ragged  fringes  of 
moleskin  which  dangled  about  his  other  knee. 

"Then  why  are  you  crying?"  said  Adora,  more  gently, 
"tell  me." 

At  the  word,  as  if  a  spring  had  been  touched,  Daid  the 
Deil  raised  himself  from  his  lair  of  stones,  his  streaked 
face  stained  with  blood,  his  bonnet  in  his  hand,  his  rags 
flying  in  the  moderate  wind  of  September,  and  stretching 
out  a  hand  towards  St.  Cuthbertstown  with  a  gesture 
which  no  tragedian  in  the  world  could  copy,  he  ex- 
claimed, "Greetin',  is  it?  I'll  tell  ye.  It's  for  him  I  am 
greetin' !  For  him — for  Roy  McCulloch,  the  best  lad  that 
ever  drew  breath  in  this  warl' — the  best  freend — the  only 


228  STRONG   MAC 

freend  that  puir  Daid  McRobb  ever  had.  And  they  hae 
jailed  him  for  what  he  never  did.  They  hae  ta'en  him 
awa'.  And  it's  my  faut !  Oh,  it's  a'  my  faut  1" 

And  standing  there  before  them,  Daid  the  Deil  broke 
into  a  wild  irregular  wail,  ancient,  autochthonal,  not  to  be 
heard  among  honest  folk,  the  keening  of  the  cave-women, 
the  rude  aboriginal  chaunt  which  saluted  the  sun-god 
when  the  blood  of  the  sacrifice  dripped  redder  under  his 
first  ray,  falling  from  the  tribal  altar. 

The  boy  at  the  very  apex  of  his  passion  stopped  dead. 
Some  sound  unheard  by  the  others  had  startled  him.  He 
paused,  suddenly  stricken  stiff  in  the  attitude  of  listening. 

"Coming !"  he  cried,  and  seizing  his  can,  made  off  at  a 
run  in  the  direction  of  the  high  sentinel  stone  which  over- 
looked the  dell. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE   DEEPEST   DEPTH. 

FROM  the  marches  of  Barnbarroch  the  road  lay  across 
a  plain  stretch  of  moorland,  now  spreading  clear  and  crisp 
beneath  the  September  sun.  The  heather  was  growing  a 
little  rusty  everywhere,  but  the  bracken,  chance  stricken 
by  an  untimeous  frost,  had  turned  and  now  withered  in 
patches  many-coloured  in  the  sunshine — orange  and  rus- 
set and  cardinal  red. 

After  losing  sight  of  Daid,  Adora  and  her  father 
essayed  this  long  open  crossing,  the  old  man  growing  more 
soddenly  weary  at  each  step,  and  as  he  rested  on  this 
stone  and  on  that  by  the  wayside,  continuing  to  dilate  on 
his  daughter's  ingratitude  and  lack  of  consideration  for 
him.  At  last  they  reached,  greatly  to  Adora's  relief,  the 
head  of  the  long  Glen  of  Pluckamin,  the  uncommon  name 
of  which  started  her  father  on  a  learned  disquisition,  thus 
for  the  moment  taking  his  thoughts  off  herself  and  her 
shortcomings. 

"Pluckamin — Pluckamin !"  he  began,  "ah,  there's  mar- 
row in  that — aye,  marrow  and  fatness.  Those  who  care 
for  nought  but  how  to  put  the  most  spoonfuls  of  porridge 
into  them,  may  indeed  see  nothing  in  Pluckamin  but 
matter  for  laughter.  The  thorns  crackle  bravely  under  the 
pot.  But  to  the  learned  and  serious  eye  the  whole  of  the 
Covenant,  count  and  tale,  is  unveiled.  "Clachan  Pluck" — 
the  Heart  of  the  Faithful  Country,  the  heart  of  Galloway. 
Even  as  the  hub  is  the  centre  of  the  wheel,  so  was  it  about 
Clachanpluck  that  the  assemblages  of  all  the  faithful  folk 


230  STRONG   MAC 

gathered.  Griersons  in  Bargatton,  Kerrs  in  Cullenoch, 
Dicksons  in  Crocket-ford,  but  the  best  of  all — the  Heart 
of  the  Heart,  were  the  McMinns  of  Pluckamin.  All 
scattered  now.  The  New  World  across  the  water  holds 
them  and  their  name.  The  ploughshare  is  passed  over 
their  pleasant  sites.  Scarce  a  trace  remains  of  the  walls. 
Only  a  greener  line  here  and  there,  seen  when  the  sun  lies 
low  in  the  west,  is  left  to  mark  the  rigs  that  were  turned 
when  the  hands  of  the  martyrs  held  the  plough.  But  such 
is  our  life — we  pass  and  are  not.  The  Jacob — the  Sup- 
planter,  cometh  in  our  place.  He  sits  in  the  shade  of  our 
pleasant  bowers.  He  eateth  of  the  vines  which  our  hands 
have  planted,  and  crieth,  'Aha !  Aha !'  " 

******* 

Grateful  for  the  momentary  respite,  Adora  let  her  father 
ramble  on  thus.  The  rugged  fell  of  the  moorland,  shaggy 
as  an  undipped  garron,  yet  in  spite  of  infinite  diversity  of 
heather  and  rocks  presenting  no  considerable  elevation  to 
the  eye,  broke  down  suddenly.  The  bare  hill  track, 
crossed  with  slaty  edges  every  half-dozen  yards,  washed 
clean  as  scraped  bone  by  the  thunder  rains,  changed  all 
at  once  into  a  woodland  glade,  with  birches  gracefully 
light  all  about. 

Down  this  track,  where  it  began  to  skirt  the  policies  of 
Lowran,  Adora  was  guiding  her  father,  who  was  still 
meditating  on  the  past  greatness  of  Clachanpluck  and 
Pluckamin,  when  at  a  turn  of  the  path  she  came  suddenly 
upon  a  pair  of  women,  stern  of  aspect  as  accusing  spirits. 
Both  were  wrapped  in  black,  and  the  head  of  the  elder  was 
bare,  while  the  shorter  and  younger  of  the  two  had  a 
shawl  drawn  about  her. 

Adora  knew  them  for  Sidney  Latimer's  mother,  and  her 
unfailing  companion,  Purslane.  The  women  had  been 
ascending  slowly,  as  if  the  steep  slope  which  led  out  upon 
the  face  of  the  moor  had  somewhat  tried  their  powers. 
But  at  the  sight  of  Adora  and  her  father  they  halted, 
astonished. 

Then  Mrs.  Larimer  advanced  a  few  steps,  and  leaning 


THE  DEEPEST   DEPTH  231 

forward,  as  if  she  was  about  to  spring  upon  Adora,  cried 
in  a  loud  voice,  "Where  is  he  ?  Tell  me — and  I  will  forgive 
all." 

Adora  stood  aghast,  not  knowing  what  to  answer.  She 
comprehended  that  the  Lady  of  Lowran  had  come  out  to 
seek  her  son — the  son  for  causing  whose  death  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch  had  been  seized  with  rude  shoutings  by  the 
ignorant  rabble.  But  Adora  did  not  understand  that  she 
herself  could  be  accused  of  having  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  matter.  However,  she  had  to  deal  hourly  with 
one  whom  God  had  touched,  and  whatever  the  woman 
said  she  was  resolved  to  be  patient  with  the  grief-stricken. 
She  answered  gently. 

"Madam,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  know  where  your  son  is. 
It  is  many  days  since  my  father  and  I  saw  him.  I  am 
sorry — I  would  give  my  life  if  all  were  happily  ended." 

"Your  life — your  life — !"  shrieked  the  old  woman, 
gaunt  of  cheek  and  wild  of  aspect,  lifting  up  her  clenched 
hand  frantically  above  her  head  as  if  in  act  to  strike, 
"his  life  say  rather!  Give  him  back  to  me — I  beseech 
you.  Ah,  I  never  did  harm  to  you  or  yours  all  my  life — 
why  should  you  come  into  mine  to  blight  it?  Give  him 
back  to  me,  I  say.  Why  are  you  so  cruel  ?" 

"My  Lady  of  Lowran" — began  Adora,  going  a  little 
nearer,  as  if  to  calm  her. 

"I  am  not  'my  Lady  of  Lowran/  she  cried,  thrusting 
her  hand  from  her  as  if  to  push  away  something  abomi- 
nable, "I  am  merely  a  poor  old  woman  seeking  her  only 
son — her  only  son.  Ah,  how  I  loved  him !  And  you  have 
taken  him — you  have  bewitched  him.  Ever  since  he  saw 
you  he  has  never  been  the  same  boy  to  me.  Yes,  I  noticed 
the  difference  that  first  night  when  he  came  home  to  me — 
home  from — from — from  your  den.  Did  I  not  say  so, 
even  then,  Purslane?  In  my  despite  he  would  seek  after 
the  Strange  Woman.  She  held  him  in  spite  of  my  prayers. 
She  holds  him  still.  Look  how  she  gloats  over  the  ruin 
she  has  made.  But  God  will  judge !  He  is  a  just  God, 
madam.  He  will  judge  'twixt  the  right  and  the  wrong — 


232  STRONG   MAC 

between  you  and  me — my  lady !  Give  me  my  son,  for  the 
last  time  I  bid  you.  I  order  you  to  give  me  up  my  only 
son !" 

Less  agitated,  though  no  less  bitter  at  heart,  Purslane 
had  been  endeavouring  to  moderate  the  fierceness  of  her 
mistress's  vehemence.  Now  she  succeeded  to  this  extent 
that  Adora,  who  stood  trembling  before  them,  not  with 
guilt  or  fear,  but  with  a  new  pitifulness,  managed  to  get 
in  the  first  words  of  her  answer. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  briefly,  "I  have  a  right  to  be  heard. 
I  am  a  young  girl,  as  you  were  before  you  were  married. 
I  am  a  human  being.  I  have  a  right  to  defend  myself.  I 
have  never  sought  your  son.  I  have  never  seen  him  since 
the  day,  many  months  ago,  when  I  told  him  that  he  must 
not  come  to  my  father's  house  while  I  was  there.  He  has 
kept  his  word,  and  I  mine  also.  It  is  true  that  through  no 
fault  of  mine  I  found  myself  cast  out  of  the  only  home  I 
had  ever  known.  Shelter  was  offered  to  us  by  a  good 
friend.  We  accepted  it.  It  was  the  choice  of  the  destitute. 
We  had  nowhere  else  to  go.  That  again  by  no  fault  of 
ours  is  at  an  end.  We  go  forth,  my  father  and  I,  with  no 
more  than  we  carry,  but  at  least  with  our  hearts  clean  of 
any  shame  towards  you  or  your  son !" 

But  Mrs.  Latimer  was  not  to  be  appeased.  While 
Adora  was  speaking,  Purslane  had  been  able  to  restrain 
her.  But  now  she  broke  out  afresh. 

"No,"  she  cried,  "you  cannot  cozen  me,  madam,  with 
your  lies.  I  am  a  woman  and  know  you.  You  tricked 
my  boy.  You  drew  him  on  till  you  had  him  in  your  toils, 
then  you  pretended  to  cast  him  off — as  you  cast  off  that 
young  booby  whom  your  paramour  murdered  at  his  own 
door-step.  And  now  you  have  been  the  death  of  my  son.  I 
say  not  with  your  own  hands — but — he  has  come  to  his 
death  among  you.  Ah,  that  ever  a  Latimer  of  Lowran 
should  have  evened  himself  to  a  beggar  wench !  I  said 
from  the  first  that  ill  would  come  of  it.  I  warned  him  of 
going  to  seek  the  company  of  a  girl  without  family,  with- 
out name — " 


THE  DEEPEST   DEPTH  233 

So  far  the  old  Dominie  had  listened  in  a  kind  of  daze. 
He  was  physically  wearied  to  exhaustion.  The  excite- 
ments of  the  day  had  set  his  brain  wandering.  The  road- 
fatigue,  in  spite  of  his  staff  and  his  daughter's  arm  to  lean 
upon,  had  left  him  in  a  semi-comatose  state.  But  at  the 
last  words  of  the  Lady  of  Lowran  he  seemed  suddenly  to 
wake. 

The  cowered  decrepit  ex-drunkard  seemed  to  become  a 
new  man.  He  actually  erected  himself,  so  that  in  the  plain 
sight  of  all,  a  cubit  was  added  to  his  stature. 

"No — "  he  cried,  with  a  gesture  of  real  dignity,  "this 
my  daughter  is  no  beggar  wench.  There  is  no  disgrace 
in  her  family  tree,  save  her  connection  with  me.  Mrs. 
Latimer  of  Lowran,  I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you 
that  this  young  lady  comes  of  as  good  and  unstained  a 
lineage  as  the  best  of  your  husband's  house.  And  if  I  may 
be  allowed  the  discourtesy  in  the  course  of  a  genealogical 
discussion,  she  is  of  better  stock  than  your  own.  You 
have  known  my  daughter  only  as  Adora  Gracie,  the 
daughter  of  the  schoolmaster  of  Lowran.  I  have  to  in- 
form you  that  my  name  is  Donald  Balgracie,  younger  son 
of  the  late  Archibald  Balgracie,  of  Balgracie,  in  the 
county  of  Midlothian,  as  you  can  ascertain  by  writing  to 
my  brother,  the  present  laird.  I  have  the  honour,  madam, 
of  bidding  you  a  very  good  day." 

And  taking  his  hand  from  his  daughter's  arm,  the  old 
gentleman — gentleman  once  more  and  for  ever,  lifted  his 
hat  and  swept  the  two  women  a  ceremonious  salutation  of 
leave-taking. 

The  Lady  of  Lowran  instinctively  bowed,  overcome  and 
amazed.  She  remained  with  her  hand  pressed  to  her 
breast,  her  mouth  a  little  open,  looking  after  the  pair  as 
they  took  their  way  down  the  long  sunlit  Glen  of  Plucka- 
min,  with  the  afternoon  glow  lying  bright  and  warm  and 
even  upon  everything. 

When  they  had  vanished  the  Lady  of  Lowran  turned  to 
Purslane,  and  the  first  words  she  uttered,  stammering  and 
amazed,  were  these:  "If  that  be  true — Balgracie  of  Bal- 


234  STRONG   MAC 

grade  is  dead  without  heirs.    I  saw  the  advertisement  in 

yesterday's  Observer — and — these  two  do  not  know." 
*    '        *  *  *  *  *  * 

The  two  women  looked  long  at  each  other,  reading  even 
to  the  dividing  asunder  of  soul  and  marrow.  Then  with 
one  accord  they  turned  and  followed  Adora  Gracie  with 
their  eyes  as  she  went  down  the  leafy  glade,  supporting 
the  painful  steps  of  Donald  Balgracie,  drunken  outcast — 
and  proximate  landowner.  But  if  there  was  any  thought 
common  to  both  their  hearts,  they  gave  it  no  expression  in 
words. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ADORA   FINDS   HER   SOUL. 

THERE  are  few  hearts  sadder  than  that  of  a  brave 
woman  who  after  a  long  struggle  finds  that  she  is  reaching 
the  limits  of  her  courage.  And  it  was  thus  that  Adora 
Gracie  felt  as  she  led  her  father  away  from  the  interview 
with  the  Lady  of  Lowran.  She  had  given  little  attention 
and  no  concern  to  what  her  father  had  said  to  Mrs.  Lati- 
mer  about  his  birth  and  position.  From  her  childhood  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  such  outbursts — though  never,  it 
is  true,  delivered  with  such  assurance  and  detail.  But  at  a 
certain  stage  of  his  failing,  high  birth  and  noble  connec- 
tions formed  a  maudlin  topic  of  her  father's,  particularly 
distasteful  to  his  daughter. 

Indeed  the  prospect  before  her  was  one  to  daunt  the 
boldest  woman.  What  to  do  she  knew  not.  To  beg  she 
was  ashamed,  and  with  her  father  to  keep  watch  and  ward 
over,  even  honest  "digging"  of  any  kind  seemed  out  of  the 
question.  She  dared  not  leave  him  a  moment  alone. 
Adora  felt  that  she  could  not  go  through  Lowran.  She 
dreaded  the  faces  at  the  windows,  ugly,  curious,  sneering, 
hateful  faces.  She  could  not  bear  to  pass  the  schoolhouse 
where  Hardhill's  "stickit"  nephew  had  already  been  in- 
stalled. The  sight  of  the  bairns  at  marbles  in  the  school 
playground  would  have  been  agony  to  her.  A  skipping- 
rope  (she  thought)  would  have  broken  her  heart.  She 
turned  into  the  Loop  Road — the  by-way  through  the  poli- 
cies of  Lowran,  along  which  on  the  night  of  his  first  ap- 
prehension, Roy  McCulloch  had  conducted  her  home.  As 
she  passed  between  the  bushes,  strange  thoughts  darted 
1  like  lightning  through  her  soul. 

Ah,  the  by-ways  of  life!     Ill  and  good  alike  lurk  in 


236  STRONG    MAC 

them.  Who  amongst  us,  straying  down  some  solitary 
lane,  idle  of  thought,  empty  of  intention,  has  not  come 
suddenly  upon  that  which  has  changed  all  his  life?  For 
good,  sometimes.  For  evil,  perhaps  oftener,  teaching  the 
wisdom  of  the  double-barrelled  maxim :  "Be  not  idle  when 
alone ;  nor  alone  when  idle." 

Yet  sometimes  in  the  uncharted  by-ways  good  sprites 
lurk.  For  even  now,  when  Adora's  way  was  most  desolate, 
her  future  to  the  eye  of  sense  most  hopeless,  such  an  one 
appeared,  as  unexpected  to  the  sight  as  the  Queen  of  the 
Fairies  a-swing  upon  the  topmost  petal  of  a  rose-bush. 

Only  this  fairy  queen  had  silvery  hair  with  blond 
lights  in  it,  and  for  a  magic  wand  carried  knitting  needles 
of  clicking  steel,  from  which  not  even  the  most  poignant 
emotion  caused  her  to  drop  a  stitch.  It  was  Aline  Mc- 
Quhirr,  waiting  for  them  to  pass  that  way.  She  had 
heard  of  the  terrible  events  at  House  of  Muir.  Indeed  her 
brother  had  just  come  in,  furious  with  anger  at  the  treat- 
ment which  the  mob  had  dealt  out  to  Roy  and  his  father — 
"bound  like  brute  beasts  and  thrown  into  a  cart  bottom," 
had  been  his  report. 

So  Aline  the  gentle,  knowing  in  her  heart  that  House  of 
Muir  would  be  no  abiding  place  for  Adora  and  her  father, 
came  to  compel  what  had  been  formerly  refused,  both  on 
account  of  the  smallness  of  her  accommodation  and  be- 
cause of  the  jealousy  of  her  brother  Adam's  wife  at  the 
farm. 

This  time,  however,  Aline  would  take  no  refusal.  She 
was  armed  in  advance  against  every  objection. 

"There  are  two  rooms  and  a  garret  for  three  folk,"  she 
said,  "and  ye  can  sleep  bravely  in  my  broad  bed,  lassie! 
Ye  are  jimp  and  sma' !  And  as  for  Flora  up  at  the  farm — 
nineteen  months  o'  clarty  byres  and  a  rousing  bairn  to 
suckle,  hae  learn  her  that  she  didna  mairry  Adam  Mc- 
Quhirr  only  to  sit  in  a  ben  room,  arrayed  like  Solomon  in 
a'  his  glory,  surroonded  wi'  cheena  ornaments !" 

So  it  befell  that,  as  with  the  children  of  the  righteous,  so 
with  the  child  of  the  drunken  schoolmaster,  Adora  found 


ADORA  FINDS  HER  SOUL  237 

herself  once  more  not  forsaken,  and  without  necessity  to 
beg  her  bread.  Yet  neither  here  nor  elsewhere  would  she 
eat  the  bread  of  the  idle.  In  the  cot  house  of  Gairie  there 
was  a  spinning  wheel  at  Aline's,  and  Adora  was  a  past 
mistress  of  the  art.  So  the  two  women  made  a  compact. 

As  much  as  anything  else,  what  Adora  needed  was  time 
to  bethink  herself.  Her  father's  boast  of  ancestry  had  in- 
deed passed  over  her  as  the  wind.  That  was  less  than 
nothing.  But  there  was  Roy  McCulloch  lying  in  St. 
Cuthbertstown  jail  under  the  dark  suspicion  of  having 
committed  two  murders  for  her  sake. 

For  her  sake — yes,  for  her  sake.  True  or  untrue,  she 
was  smitten  because  of  that.  Why  else  was  she  an  out- 
cast, scarce  daring  to  set  foot  beyond  the  door,  lest  the 
same  wild  insensate  mob  she  had  seen  at  House  of  Muir 
should  gather  and  sack  the  humble  cottage  of  her  gentlest 
hostess. 

Roy  McCulloch  was  innocent,  of  that  she  had  no  doubt 
— but  what  of  Sharon  ?  The  question  had  often  troubled 
her,  and  amongst  other  things  she  must  think  it  out. 
During  her  evening  walks  with  Roy's  father,  she  had  seen 
deeper  than  perhaps  any  had  ever  done  before  into  the 
stern,  silent,  determined  nature  of  the  ex-smuggler.  The 
dark  stain  which  the  death  of  his  wife  had  made  across  the 
man's  life  had  not  been  washed  away  by  the  tide  of  events, 
nor  yet  had  it  faded  out  with  the  lapse  of  time. 

As  she  walked  Aline's  beautifully  clean  floor,  back  and 
forth,  to  the  booming  rhythm  of  her  wheel,  Adora  went 
over  every  circumstance  in  her  mind,  and  the  more  she 
thought,  the  greater  was  her  perplexity.  She  saw  that  in 
helping  Roy,  she  might  very  well  send  his  father  to  the 
gallows.  Carefully  and  dispassionately,  as  a  judge  sums 
up,  she  laid  the  evidence  piece  by  piece  before  her  own 
mind.  First,  there  was  the  calmness  with  which,  having 
a  son  familiar  with  the  law,  Sharon  McCulloch  had 
awaited  Roy's  release.  He  had  said  nothing,  done 
nothing,  sought  no  advocate — simply  waited.  Was  it  un- 
natural calmness  born  of  mere  callousness,  or  did  it  spring 


238  STRONG    MAC 

from  superior  knowledge?  Often  in  their  wanderings 
Sharon  McCulloch  had  fulminated  against  the  lairds — 
Lowran,  Barwhinnock,  Glenkells.  Their  very  names  were 
anathema  to  him.  She  had  seen  the  muscles  working  on 
the  grim  old  face  as  he  spoke  of  them.  As  to  Sandy 
Ewan,  had  he  not  said  of  him :  "The  spilling  of  any  man's 
blood  is  doubtless  a  crime,  and  satisfaction  for  it  is  rightly 
demanded  of  the  slayer.  But  yet  if  the  Lord  of  Justice 
hath  an  Angel  of  Death  abroad  on  the  earth,  it  is  surely 
his  duty  to  strike  down  such  a  man  as  Alexander  Ewan." 

But  from  these  speculations  Adora's  mind  constantly 
returned  to  this — Roy  McCulloch,  at  least,  was  certainly 
innocent,  and  if  his  father  had  indeed  shed  blood,  Sharon 
was  not  the  man  to  let  the  innocent  suffer  in  his  place  or 
even  along  with  him — still  less  if  that  man  were  his  own 
son. 

Yet  the  more  she  thought,  the  more  tangled  became  the 
skein.  When  she  had  turned  matters  over  in  her  mind 
Adora  could  not  even  arrive  at  any  certainty  that  the  Laird 
of  Lowran  had  been  murdered.  A  blood-stained  coat, 
footsteps,  a  straying  road-weary  horse,  a  man  mys- 
teriously gone  from  his  place — these  circumstances, 
though  demanding  explanation,  were  no  proof  that  actual 
murder  had  been  done.  Doubtless  Sandy  Ewan  was  an- 
other matter.  His  huge  body,  suddenly  stricken  inert — 
the  devil  that  was  in  him  for  ever  exorcised  (so  far  as  this 
world  was  concerned),  had  been  found  making  a  blot  upon 
the  fair  God's  morning,  cumbering  the  Glebe  Road.  Only 
his  iniquities  remained  after  him — his  plottings,  his  con- 
trivings,  his  evil  doings,  which  were  still  the  talk  of  the 
country  and  the  scandal  of  the  soberly  inclined.  No,  it 
was  small  wonder  to  a  thoughtful  observer  that  Sandy 
Ewan  had  been  found  with  that  knife-haft  right-angled 
above  his  breast-bone.  The  only  wonder  was  that  it  had 
not  happened  years  before. 

******* 

Aline  left  her  guest  much  to  herself.  The  Dominie, 
abundantly  supplied  with  books  from  Aline's  wall-press, 


ADORA  FINDS  HER  SOUL  239 

needed  to  be  cared  for  chiefly  at  morn  and  even.  For  at 
her  flitting  the  old  maid  had  brought  with  her  to  the  cot 
house  of  Gairie  the  entire  family  library. 

"Gin  I  want  them  I'll  come  and  borrow  them,  Ailie !" 
her  brother  had  said,  "and  that's  no  doom's  likely.  The 
Drumfern  Observer  is  as  muckle  as  I  can  manage — and 
even  that  is  maistly  twa-three  weeks  auld  afore  I  get  it 
through-hands." 

So  the  clear  wise  head  of  Adora  Gracie,  by  circum- 
stances and  training  far  too  old  for  such  young  shoulders, 
was  filled  with  thoughts  which  came  in  thronging  troops. 
Sidney  Latimer  had  spoken  of  her  as  a  girl  who  ought  to 
have  been  a  lawyer.  In  the  commonest  argument  she  was 
never  satisfied  till  she  had  disentangled  a  fact,  and  brought 
it  into  relation  with  every  other  which  she  held  duly 
established. 

As  to  her  present  inquiry,  material  in  plenty  was  at  her 
disposal.  For  one  thing  Adam  McQuhirr  was  a  most  de- 
termined gossip — his  hospitable  house  a  perennial  centre 
of  talk  and  toddy.  Every  morning  he  would  "cry  in"  as  he 
called  it,  to  give  Adora  and  his  sister  the  benefit  of  the 
"news"  of  the  previous  night. 

"And  ye  may  haud  to  that !"  he  would  say  of  some  fresh 
fact,  naming  the  source  of  his  information,  "I  threepit 
doon  the  man's  throat  it  was  a  lee,  but  fegs,  he  proved  it !" 

For,  as  was  natural,  the  whole  valley  of  the  Dee  and  all 
the  region  between  the  three  Cairnsimuirs  were  thick  with 
rumours  of  every  sort.  Each  day  a  new  "clue"  was  dis- 
covered. There  were  men  from  Edinburgh.  There  were 
all  the  peace  officers  in  the  Stewartry.  There  were  ama- 
teurs also,  not  a  few.  And  there  was  a  rumour,  given  for 
what  it  was  worth,  of  a  certain  awful  Bow  Street  Runner, 
more  to  be  dreaded  than  the  murderer  himself,  who  had 
been  set  upon  the  trail  by  the  Lady  of  Lowran  herself. 

Outwardly  it  was  a  peaceful  life  which  the  two  women 
led  at  the  Gairie  cottage  in  the  time  of  the  falling  leaf. 
Kind  Adam  gave  them  their  potatoes  and  peatleading.  In 
the  idle  summer  weeks,  "  'twixt  hay  and  harvest,"  he  set 


240  STRONG    MAC 

his  men  to  chop  wood  and  "  clean  up  aboot  the  place."  He 
sent  them  down  his  own  household  yarn  to  spin, which,  in 
days  when  an  entire  family  wore  cloth  woven  from  the 
produce  of  its  own  flocks,  was  something  considerable. 
His  wife,  he  said,  whqn  explaining  the  matter,  was  "juist 
for  a'  the  world  a  woman  abandoned  to  curds-and-whey 
and  the  settin'  o'  a'  mainner  o*  hens'  eggs !" 

Adora  had  plenty  of  time  on  her  hand  for  her  task.  She 
had  been  trained  for  this,  and  with  the  quiet  and  the  as- 
sured peace  of  her  new  abode  there  came  the  need  to  do 
something  to  clear  up  the  terrible  double  mystery  which 
had  overshadowed  all  the  lives  connected  in  any  way  with 
hers.  The  girl  felt  her  intellect  sharpened  for  the  duty. 
She  knew,  without  ever  actually  thinking  it,  that  she  was 
cleverer  than  any  one  in  the  neighbourhood.  Her  mind 
followed  a  clue  instinctively,  coldly,  for  itself — even  as 
she  had  read  mathematics  for  pleasure  in  the  old  days 
at  the  schoolhouse,  while  her  father  was  dissertating 
lengthily  upon  the  beauties  of  ancient  literature. 

So,  like  a  machine,  Adora  set  herself  to  the  task  of 
the  solution  of  the  problem,  dispassionately,  impersonally, 
with  regulated  speed  and  trained  precision.  What  im- 
pelled her?  For  no  machine,  however  perfect,  can  do  its 
work  without  a  motive  power.  Certainly  no  mere  abstract 
love  of  justice,  which  is  a  passion  with  some. 

It  might  have  been  love — though  if  so,  Adora  herself 
would  probably  be  the  last  to  know  it.  Love?  Well,  per- 
haps. But  for  whom  ? 

Her  position,  in  the  complete  retirement,  half  conceal- 
ment of  the  little  house  in  the  Gairie  loaning,  prevented 
her  from  following  up  any  clues  on  the  spot.  She  could  not 
go  to  the  Boreland  or  be  seen  on  the  Glebe  Road,  she  could 
not  examine  the  spot  where  as  the  spring  night  drew  to 
morning  Sandy  Ewan  had  gripped  his  last  handful  of 
earth  and  weeds.  Nor  yet  to  the  Great  House  of  Lowran, 
guarded  by  Jonathan  Grier,  and  inhabited  by  two  women 
who  hated  her.  Least  of  all  could  she  venture  near  House 
of  Muir,  which  remained  in  the  hands  of  the  lowest  of  the 


ADORA  FINDS  HER  SOUL  241 

law's  myrmidons,  deputy  substitutes  of  the  sheriff's  officer 
at  St.  Cuthbertstown. 

No,  it  was  clear  to  Adora  Gracie  that  with  no  more 
than  her  own  unaided  individual  judgment,  she  must  clear 
and  disentangle  the  true  from  the  false,  and  find  the  way 
of  deliverance  for  those  who  had  been  staunchly  her 
friends  in  the  day  of  her  tribulation. 

So  day  after  day  she  set  herself,  during  the  long  hours 
of  work,  while  Aline  glided  about  like  a  noiseless  fairy, 
never  interrupting,  never  leaving  her  wholly  alone,  to 
trace  out  the  course  of  events,  line  upon  line,  with  the 
aids  of  the  calendar,  the  district  newspapers  and  the  local 
road  maps  which  Adam  McQuhirr  loaned  her.  She  made 
few  written  notes,  and  those  chiefly  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
when,  as  was  her  custom,  she  walked  up  into  the  fields 
behind  the  cottage  to  a  little  look-out  knoll,  where  was  a 
standing  stone  much  used  by  cattle  as  a  rubbing-post. 
This  was  her  study. 

Here,  her  thoughts  of  the  day  became  clarified,  as  the 
cool  of  evening  struck  inward  upon  her  bared  head.  All 
that  she  had  considered  during  the  working  hours  drew  to 
a  point.  She  knew  not  that  she  was  beautiful  as  she  stood 
there  in  the  rich  glow  of  evening.  She  would  have  taken 
it  as  an  insult  if  any  one  had  told  her  so — or  at  least, 
almost  any  one. 

She  was  the  thinker,  the  resolver,  the  only  person  in 
Lowran  capable  of  setting  apart  once  for  all  Truth  and  the 
lie.  That  she  had  been  born  a  girl  seemed  to  Adora  a 
pity.  She  could  have  done  so  much  more  as  a  man.  Still 
since  that  could  not  be  helped,  she  must  do  the  best  she 
could,  in  spite  of  the  drawbacks  with  which  an  unkind 
Nature  had  handicapped  her. 

In  those  days  of  rule-of-thumb  she  reconstituted  the 
crime  according  to  the  latest  and  most  approved  methods. 
She  ruled  nobody  out.  She  rose  with  a  mind  perfectly 
open  to  conviction  every  morning.  She  imagined  Roy, 
furious  with  anger  against  the  author,  actual  or  sup- 
posed, of  his  long  imprisonment,  hastening  to  face  Sandy 


242  STRONG  MAC 

Ewan.  She  saw  the  quarrel,  the  slow  provocation  grow- 
ing in  the  horse  face,  the  quick  outbreak,  the  blow,  the 
fatal  return.  She  even  imagined  the  cooler,  more  deliber- 
ate carrying  out  of  Sharon's  crusade  against  the  lairds. 
All  was  possible  to  Adora,  that  is,  as  a  working  hypothesis 
— till  she  found  a  better. 

Strange  were  the  places  her  soul  passed  through,  bound 
to  a  body  quietly  going  to  and  fro  before  a  spinning  wheel, 
during  these  weeks.  But  each  day  lessened  the  circle,  and 
made  her  action  clearer.  And  that  action  must  be — she 
saw  it  every  day  more  clearly,  to  find  Sidney  Latimer. 
Dead  or  alive,  she  must  find  him. 

The  problem  of  what  had  become  of  the  young  laird 
was  sufficiently  difficult.  The  wise  folk  of  the  law,  both 
those  of  home  produce  and  the  imported,  had  failed 
utterly.  His  own  friends  were  at  a  loss.  The  most  active 
researches  that  had  been  carried  on  had  proved  in- 
effectual, and  were  gradually  being  dropped. 

How  then  could  a  girl,  practically  confined  to  a  two- 
roomed  house  and  a  scanty  round  of  fields,  succeed  in  that 
which  so  many  had  attempted  in  vain?  Well,  for  one 
thing  they  had  not  Adora's  equipment  or  Adora's  knowl- 
edge, nor  was  it  possible  that  they  could  possess  these. 

It  may  seem  a  strange,  almost  an  inhuman  thing  to  say, 
yet  it  is  true  that  not  in  the  years  when  she  could  scarce 
count  her  lovers  upon  her  ten  fingers,  but  in  the  course  of 
this  anxious  solitary  quest  did  the  girl  find  her  soul. 

And  the  first  resolve  which  solidified  in  her  was  a 
strange  one.  It  was  this.  Upon  a  night  after  dark,  when 
there  was  a  moon — but  not  too  brilliant  a  moon,  she  would 
go  alone  to  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 
THE  WOLF'S  CUB. 

ALINE  knew  that  there  was  that  on  the  mind  of  her 
little  maid  which  preyed  sorely  upon  its  peace.  But  with 
the  reticent  wisdom  of  age  she  said  little,  proffering  only 
the  fine  sympathy  of  silence  in  which  she  was  an  adept. 
So  when  Adora,  without  explanation,  informed  her  that 
she  meant  to  be  absent  a  part  of  the  evening  upon  business 
of  importance,  Aline  the  gentle  sighed,  knowing  it  to  be 
no  affair  of  sweethearts'  trysting,  and — offered  her  a 
pistol  which  had  certainly  not  been  loaded  for  a  hundred 
years.  Adora  declined  smilingly  the  doubtful  advantage 
of  this  weapon.  But  she  exhibited  to  the  shuddering  gaze 
of  Aline  the  ornamented  clasp-knife  which  Sharon,  the 
ex-smuggler,  had  brought  from  Spain,  and  the  very  sight 
of  which — open — as  Aline  said,  "made  you  think  of 
murder." 

Since,  however,  at  that  time  little  else  was  thought  about 
over  twenty  parishes,  the  aspect  of  the  weapon  was  less 
bloodthirsty  than  the  old  maid's  exclamation  might  lead 
one  to  suppose. 

Still  Adora  was  armed.  She  knew  how  to  defend  her- 
self. For  Sharon  had  been  at  pains  to  teach  her  the 
Spanish  art  of  the  knife-play,  as  he  himself  had  practised 
it  for  the  favours  of  a  certain  Magarato  girl  of  Astorga  in 
the  open  ground  behind  the  huge  gaunt  cathedral  of  Leon. 

Adora's  purpose  was  clear.  She  felt  that  the  key  of  the 
whole  mystery  lay  in  or  about  the  Marches  of  Barnbar- 
roch.  Very  well,  she  would  go  there  then,  and  at  the  time 
she  had  chosen. 

At  last  the  suitable  night  arrived.  It  was  just  at  the 
time  when  the  moon  emerges  from  the  crescent,  a  misty 


244  STRONG  MAC 

night  with  the  mild  haze  of  autumn  suspended  about 
the  height  of  the  tree-tops.  There  is  no  use  in  saying  that 
Adora's  heart  did  not  beat,  or  that  she  was  perfectly  with- 
out fear.  Being  young  and  a  woman  she  was  afraid — 
deadly  afraid.  But  none  the  less  she  went — because  it 
was  a  necessary  part  of  her  plan. 

As  Adora  approached  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch,  the 
moon  was  already  low  and  the  night  serene,  but  the  pearly 
haze  rendered  all  outlines  indistinct  and  the  whole  land- 
scape full  of  soft  mystery.  But  Adora's  mind  was  bent 
upon  one  purpose,  even  as  a  steel  trap  is  set.  She  saw 
only  what  she  had  gone  forth  to  look  for,  and  she  marched 
on  with  eager  and  unfaltering  determination.  She  passed 
up  the  long  Glen  of  Pluckamin,  the  moon  struggling  to 
sift  through  the  tall  trees,  and  dappling  sparsely  the  path 
with  curdled  light.  She  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  top, 
in  order  to  gaze  abroad  across  the  heathery  moorland 
which  ran  ten  miles  to  the  west  and  north  in  long  undula- 
tions, unbroken  save  for  a  few  such  bowl-like  "cleuchs"  as 
the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch. 

Adora  laid  herself  down  on  a  flat  rock  overlooking  the 
deep  gully.  She  could  see  through  the  faintly  frosted 
moonshine  the  shapes  of  the  stones  and  the  white  wimple 
of  the  track  as  it  descended  and  again  ascended.  But 
nothing  moved.  Every  sprig  of  heath,  leaf  of  alder,  and 
frond  of  bracken  seemed .  carved  in  ebony,  and  a  mystic 
peace  brooded  over  all. 

Yet  it  was  here,  in  this  quiet  dell,  that  Sidney  Latimer's 
bloody  coat  had  been  found.  Here  the  footmarks  had 
been  the  thickest  and  the  most  deeply  indented — here  (and 
the  thought  came  to  her  with  a  kind  of  thrill)  she  and  her 
father  had  met  Daid  McRobb  with  a  flesh  wound  on  his 
leg.  Adora  was  near  her  purpose  now.  So  drawing  a 
long  breath,  and  with  her  hand  on  Sharon's  Leonese  knife, 
she  rose  to  her  feet  and  sent  forth  a  far-reaching  musical 
cry. 

"Daid!    Daid!    Oh-h-h-  Daid!" 

It  was  the  call  with  which  she  had  often  witched  the 


THE   WOLF'S   CUB  245 

truants  back  to  school,  when  her  father's  severity  had 
frightened  them  to  the  rocks  and  caves  of  the  earth.  As 
interpreted  by  the  youth  of  Lowran  it  meant  at  once  for- 
giveness and  protection. 

Quite  unconsciously  Adora  stood  beside  the  "standing 
stane"  which  had  been  a  Druid  monument.  She  leaned  her 
elbow  on  the  grooved  altar-top  and  waited. 

"Daid!    Daid!    Oh-h-hDaid!" 

As  girls  that  call  the  kine  to  the  milking  bars  in  the 
quiet  of  eventide,  so  at  the  gate  of  the  unknown 
Adora  called.  Thrice  the  cry  went  forth  without  an  an- 
swer, but  at  the  fourth,  hardly  were  the  words  out  of  her 
mouth,  when  apparently  descending  from  heaven,  Daid 
the  Deil  stood  by  the  girl's  side.  He  pressed  his  fingers 
to  her  lips,  at  the  same  time  pulling  her  down  among  the 
loose  boulders,  where  she  had  stood,  smothered  to  the 
waist  in  heather. 

"Hush,"  he  said,  "he's  yonder!" 

The  two  lay  on  the  lip  of  the  cup,  which  was  cut 
through  the  centre  from  verge  to  verge  by  the  six-foot 
dyke  that  gave  the  place  its  name  of  the  Marches  of  Barn- 
barroch.  They  could  see  the  gap  in  the  dry  stone  wall — 
its  shadow  pale  blue  in  the  misty  moonlight  and  lengthen- 
ing as  the  moon  westered.  Parts  of  the  wrecked  gate  had 
been  used  for  firewood,  and  what  remained  now  lay  in  the 
gap — a  mere  heap  of  posts  and  bars  broken  and  splintered. 

But  all  was  strangely  still  and  peaceful  under  the  moon. 
Nevertheless,  Daid  took  the  girl's  hand  to  pull  her  away. 
But  a  vague  expectation  held  her.  Down  by  the  heap  of 
splinters  in  the  darkest  of  the  gap  it  seemed  to  Adora  that 
something  had  moved.  She  shook  off  Daid's  hand  and 
looked  long  and  eagerly.  Perhaps — perhaps  after  all  she 
had  not  come  there  for  nothing. 

And  as  she  looked,  a  small  black  thing,  toad-like  and 
squat,  moved  to  the  pile  of  wood  as  if  to  collect  some  of  the 
debris.  So  slow  and  deliberate  were  its  movements  that 
several  times  Adora  thought  she  must  have  been  mistaken. 


246  STRONG  MAC 

But  no— the  creature  was  nearer  now  than  it  had  been 
when  first  she  caught  sight  of  it.  She  could  hear  Daid 
breathing  supplications  in  her  ear  to  come  away. 

"For  the  love  o'  God,  come!"  he  said,  invoking  that 
which,  most  certainly,  the  poor  outcast  knew  nothing 
about. 

Then,  sudden  as  two  hands  clapped  together,  something 
happened  which  might  well  have  daunted  the  stoutest 
heart.  Perhaps  some  flutter  of  woman's  apparel,  or  some 
bright  glinting  of  button  or  metal  clasp  advertised  the 
presence  of  spies  to  the  unknown  thing  crouched  in  the 
hollow  beneath.  At  any  rate,  in  a  moment  the  creature's 
painful  deliberation  of  movement  was  changed  into  a 
rapid  crab-like  rush  straight  up  the  rough  hillside,  the 
slaty  stones  clinking  and  spinning  from  under  its  feet. 

With  a  hoarse  cry  Daid  thrust  Adora  behind  him, 
snatching  her  Spanish  knife  as  he  did  so. 

"Quick  I"  Boon  wi'  ye !  Doon  the  brae !  Rin !  For 
God's  sake,  rin !"  he  cried. 

But  he  himself  stood  still,  with  Sharon's  knife  in  his 
hand. 

And  be  it  said  that  for  once  in  her  life  Adora  obeyed  the 
male  without  question. 

It  was  not  that  she  was  simply  afraid.  Something  hor- 
rid, deformed,  troglodyte,  about  the  creature  raised  a 
whirlwind  of  terror,  wild  and  vague,  in  Adora's  bosom. 
But  Daid,  to  whom  apparently  the  mystery  was  no  mys- 
tery, remained  behind,  standing  upon  his  defence. 
******* 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  when  Adora  glanced  round,  she 
saw  the  boy,  immovable,  with  Sharon's  knife  still  in  his 
hand.  He  was  wiping  it  on  his  sleeve,  but  of  his  demon 
assailant  nothing  whatever  was  to  be  seen. 

Daid  descended  the  hill  tranquilly  and  with  circumspec- 
tion. Then  he  rendered  Adora  back  her  knife  in  silence. 

"And  noo,"  he  said,  "what  is't  that  ye  are  wantin'  wi' 
Daid?" 

"David,"  began  the  girl  softly,  "in  the  gaol  of  St. 


THE   WOLF'S   CUB  247 

Cuthbertstown  there  lie  two  innocent  men.  I  want  you  to 
help  me  to  get  them  out !" 

The  boy  stood  a  moment  uncertain,  as  if  balancing 
something  in  his  mind. 

"If  I  do  help  ye/'  he  said,  "ye  will  sweer  never  to  tell 
what  ye  hae  seen  the  nicht !  Nor  say  ocht  aboot  this  ?" 

He  touched  the  wound  in  his  leg,  still  bare  and  unhealed. 

Adora  promised,  and  the  boy,  reassured  on  that  point, 
gradually  unbending,  gave  the  girl  more  of  his  confidence. 

"Aweel,"  he  said,  with  a  more  friendly  accent,  "tell  me 
what  it  is  ye  want !" 

There  was  nothing  absolutely  hostile  in  the  boy's  atti- 
tude. But  it  was  evident  that  he  was  there  in  a  posture  of 
defence — Daid  contra  mundum!"  And  it  behoved  him 
to  be  wary  even  with  an  ancient  friend  like  Adora.  The 
girl  resolved  to  give  him  her  full  confidence. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me,"  she  said,  "to  find  out  if  Sidney 
Latimer  is  murdered  or  not,  and  who  it  was  that  killed 
Sandy  Ewan." 

"Let  the  second  bide,"  said  Daid  the  Deil,  "they  will 
never  hang  ony  man  for  that.  But  I'll  help  ye  wi'  the 
findin'  o'  the  Laird  o'  Lowran,  gin  he  is  to  be  fand  aboon 
the  earth  or  oot  o'  the  water !" 

The  girl  gazed  at  the  strange  ragged  outcast  who  had 
once  been  her  pupil  in  the  law-abiding  Presbyterially  ex- 
amined school  of  Lowran. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it  ?"  she  said,  breathlessly ; 
"do  you  think  he  is  dead  ?" 

"Them  that  are  oot  a'  nicht  on  the  face  o'  the  muir,  wi' 
nae  bed  but  the  heather,  ken  a  heap  o'  things  that  folk  in 
hooses  o'  biggit  stane  hear  nocht  aboot !"  replied  the  boy, 
enigmatically. 

"But  what  do  you  know?"  demanded  Adora.  "If  you 
have  any  care  or  love  for  Roy  McCulloch  or  his  father, 
tell  me  at  once." 

"I  hae  nane  o'  either  for  his  faither,"  said  the  boy 
sulkily ;  "as  for  him,  he  may  hang  by  the  neck  for  ocht  that 
Daid  cares !" 


248  STRONG  MAC 

"Then  you  care  as  little  for  Roy  McCulloch?"  she  said, 
diplomatically ;  "I  thought  you  loved  him !" 

"Loved  him — aye,  maybe  as  well  as  you,  for  a'  your 
talk,"  cried  the  boy,  suddenly  stung  into  hot  anger.  "Do 
you  love  him,  as  ye  caa'  it — you  that's  sae  glib  wi'  siccan 
awesome  words?  'Love'  indeed!  Wha  speaks  aboot 
'lovin' }  fowk  till  they're  deid !" 

This  was  coming  somewhat  near  home,  and  Adora 
wished  to  change  the  venue. 

"You  wish  to  save  him,  don't  you,"  she  said — "to  help 
me  to  save  him — that  is  ?" 

But  Daid  had  seen  too  many  of  the  hithers  and  thithers 
of  life  to  be  put  off  with  mere  verbal  counters. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  turning  and  facing  her  in  the 
deep  darks  of  Pluckamin  Cleuch,  into  which  the  last  strug- 
gling slants  of  the  moonlight  could  hardly  enter,  "I'll  tell 
ye,  Adora  Gracie,  what  ye  aiblins  dinna  ken  yoursel', 
aye,  and  what  maybe  will  no  thank  me  for  tellin'  ye.  It's 
this — lasses  dinna  gang  at  mirk  midnicht  to  the  Mairches 
6'  Barnbarroch,  an'  it  be  na  for  the  sake  o'  them  they  love 
(as  ye  caa'  it)  wi'  a'  their  hearts !  Noo  what  yin  is  it?  Is 
it  for  the  sake  o'  Laird  Latimer,  that's  maybe  deid  an' 
buried,  an'  maybe  no — or  is  it  for  Roy  McCulloch,  that 
rins  a  sair  chance  o'  being  hanged  for  murderin'  a  man  he 
never  laid  hand  upon  ?" 

The  boy,  who  had  spoken  with  extraordinary  vehemence, 
unexpectedly  seized  Adora  by  the  wrists,  as  if  to  compel 
her  to  answer.  The  girl,  taken  by  surprise,  temporised 
after  the  manner  of  women. 

"Why  do  you  ask  such  foolish  questions?"  she  said, 
trying  to  shake  herself  loose  from  his  grasp. 

"Aye,  but  are  they  foolish  ?"  demanded  the  boy,  keeping 
his  grip  and  thrusting  his  face  nearer  to  hers ;  "they  are 
juist  this  foolish,  that  if  it  be  for  the  sake  of  Laird  Lati- 
mer that  ye  cam'  to  Barnbarroch  at  this  time  o'  nicht — 
then  Roy  McCulloch  had  better  be  hanged  in  peace  in  St. 
Cuthbert's  gaol !" 


THE   WOLF'S   CUB  249 

"Why  would  it  be  better?"  said  Adora,  as  the  boy 
paused. 

"Aye,  better  for  him  than  to  gang  on  wi'  a  broken 
heart — to  see  you  ridin'  to  the  kirk  as  my  Leddy  o'  Low- 
ran  !"  cried  the  boy,  his  teeth  gleaming  in  the  moonlight 
like  those  of  a  wolf  cub — which  indeed  he  was. 

And  Adora  Gracie,  who  feared  not  the  face  of  man, 
quailed  before  him. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 
DEVIL'S  WORK. 

THE  pair  went  down  the  Cleuch  of  Pluckamin  together. 
At  intervals,  as  if  to  guard  their  rear  from  attack,  the  boy 
turned  and  listened  keenly  and  with  the  most  anxious  sus- 
picion. Adora  listened  too,  but  she  heard  nothing  save 
the  hooting  of  the  cue  owl,  the  chatter  of  discontented 
blackbirds  squabbling  on  their  perches  in  the  pine  thickets, 
together  with  that  faint  under-rustle  of  mystery  which 
may  be  heard  at  night  in  every  wood — the  coming  and  go- 
ing of  beast  and  bird  and  creeping  thing  upon  their 
errands,  private  and  personal,  under  the  friendly  cover  of 
the  dark. 

But  the  particular  creeping  thing  which  had  taken  the 
brae  at  the  March  of  Barnbarroch  like  a  charging  tiger, 
seemed  to  have  relinquished  the  chase,  for  the  boy  turned 
away  satisfied. 

"Mind,  ye  are  no  to  come  hereawa'  again,  or  1*11  no  an- 
swer for  *t!"  he  adjured  his  companion.  "It  michtna  be 
canny." 

"But  how  about  yourself,  Daid?"  the  girl  said,  kindly, 
"are  you  in  no  danger  ?" 

"Danger  ?  Me  ?"  answered  Daid,  with  marked  surprise. 
"Aye,  maybe — but  no  mair  than  ordinary !" 

"Then  you  will  find  out  about  Sidney  Latimer,  as  you 
promised,"  she  continued;  "you  will  come  to  Aline  Mc- 
Quhirr's  cottage  and  bring  me  news  of  what  you  find  out 
down  by  the  Gate  House  of  Cally !" 

"I  hae  said  I  will,  and  I  will,"  the  boy  answered  steadily, 
"on  the  day  after  the  morn.  It  will  be  in  the  gloamin' 


DEVIL'S  WORK  251 

likely — gye  and  late.  Ailie  will  be  in  her  bed  when  I  come. 
Ye  can  tell  her  what  lee  ye  like,  but  ye  maun  come  doon  to 
the  White  Yetts  to  meet  me !" 

"She  trusts  me/'  said  Adora,  simply.  "I  can  come  and 
go  when  I  will." 

"She  has  need!"  returned  Daid;  "it's  no  every  lass  that 
wad  venture  as  far,  wi'  nae  ither  convoy  than  Daid  the 
Deil !" 

It  was  true,  Aline  of  the  Silver  Hair  had  indeed  great 
confidence  in  her  guest.  But  then  the  gracious  silent  per- 
ception of  the  old  gentlewoman  made  it  clear  to  her  that 
anything  of  the  nature  of  a  common  intrigue  was  wholly 
foreign  to  the  character  of  Adora  Gracie.  So,  from  the  cot- 
tage at  the  loaning-end,  Adora  went  and  came  unques- 
tioned and  unreproved,  at  hours  when  even  a  roving 
ploughman,  in  the  first  rush  of  young  blood,  would 

scarce  have  ventured  to  be  abroad. 

******* 

It  was  long  past  the  set  time  for  his  return,  and  yet  Daid 
the  Deil  had  not  appeared.  Adora,  knowing  in  what  a 
secret  hell  of  dangers  and  uncertainties  it  was  the  boy's 
lot  to  dwell,  grew  seriously  alarmed  for  his  safety.  She 
had  slipped  out  by  the  door  of  the  little  cot  house,  and  now 
stood  at  the  gable-end  near  the  peat  stack,  under  the  full 
glow  of  the  moon,  now  increased  in  light  and  favour,  sail- 
ing high  in  the  serene  heavens. 

The  night  was  large  and  gracious.  The  deep  tran- 
quillity of  a  still  autumn  night  held  everything  breathless. 
It  was  chillish,  evidently  making  for  frost  towards  the 
morning,  and  occasionally  a  broad  ash  leaf,  nipped  at  its 
base,  came  noiselessly  balancing  down. 

Never  had  girl  expected  lover  as  Adora  did  Daid's 
coming.  What  if  she  had  sent  him  to  his  death  ?  It  was 
possible — nay,  remembering  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch 

even  something  more  than  that. 

******* 

At  last,  about  four  in  the  morning,  he  came.  But  how  ? 
Beaten  and  torn  and  stamped  almost  out  of  all  image  of 


252  STRONG  MAC 

humanity,  Daid  the  Deil  it  was  who  crept  out  of  some 
secret  wild-beast  lair  into  the  clear  moonlight  and  the 
homely  smell  of  the  fire-warmed  hearths  of  men. 

And  seeing  him  thus,  come  from  doing  her  message, 
Adora  touched  to  the  heart,  suddenly  wailed  aloud.  Then 
Aline,  who,  faithful  to  her  word,  had  neither  watched  nor 
spied  upon  her  guest,  but  only  lain  sleepless,  threw  a  gar- 
ment about  her  and  sped  out  to  her  assistance. 

Between  them  they  lifted  the  boy  within,  and  laid  him 
on  the  bed  from  which  Aline  had  just  risen.  There  was, 
as  always  in  the  cottage,  water  hot  by  the  "keeping  coal" 
upon  the  fire.  So,  carefully  and  with  suppressed  sobs  of 
pitifulness,  the  two  women  removed  the  saturated  rags 
from  about  Daid's  poor  body,  washed  the  wounds  and 
bruises  which  they  found  there  in  abundance,  softened 
the  matted  masses  of  his  hair,  and  wrapped  the  boy  in 
such  luxury  of  white  lavender-scented  linen  as  he  had 
never  imagined  to  be  anywhere  in  the  world. 

All  the  time  he  was  conscious.  His  eyes  followed  them 
about  as  they  went  and  came,  but  with  a  kind  of  desire, 
dumb  and  wistful,  which  Adora  could  not  explain.  Still 
they  found  upon  him  no  deadly  wound,  nothing  to  account 
for  the  terrible  exhaustion  of  the  patient. 

Yet  he  seemed  somehow  dazed — lying  and  gazing  at 
them,  dumb,  helpless,  pathetic.  It  was  evident  that,  for 
the  moment  at  least,  he  was  beyond  speech.  For  during 
all  their  tendance  of  him  no  sound  had  escaped  his  lips, 
except  once  or  twice  a  low  inarticulate  moan,  as  if  forced 
from  the  depths  of  his  being. 

On  the  other  hand  his  desire  to  drink  was  insatiable. 
Adora  had  already  brought  him  two  full  jugs  of  water 
cold  from  the  well.  It  was  Aline,  however,  Aline  the 
gentle,  who,  lifting  up  his  head  to  administer  some  cool- 
ing draught,  made  a  gruesome  discovery. 

The  boy's  tongue  was  gone — in  its  place  a  terrible 
wound! 

Then,  both  together,  the  two  women  broke  down,  cry- 
ing bitterly  and  rocking  to  and  fro,  while  Daid  gazed 


DEVIL'S  WORK  253 

mournfully  at  them  without  tears.  Then  Aline,  recog- 
nising that  this  was  more  responsibility  than  they  could 
undertake  alone,  resolved  to  go  for  assistance — much  as 
they  wished  to  keep  secret  the  presence  of  Daid  McRobb 
in  the  cot  house  of  the  Gairie. 

The  farmer  came  down  instantly  at  the  sound  of  his 
sister's  voice  underneath  his  window.  And  just  as  ready 
was  he  to  saddle  a  horse  from  the  stable  that  he  might  ride 
to  Cairn  Edward  for  the  doctor.  But  before  this  was 
done,  Daid  had  been  removed  to  the  garret  of  the  little 
cot  house.  Good-hearted  Adam  offered  the  hospitality  of 
the  Gairie,  but  as  half  the  parish  made  the  farm  parlour 
a  place  of  call,  Aline  declined,  much  to  Adora's  relief.  Not 
only  must  the  boy  be  nursed,  but  here  was  a  third  mystery 
to  be  solved. 

"Then  if  ye  willna  bring  the  laddie  up  to  the  Gairie,  I 
will  gie  ye  a  hand  to  carry  him  up  to  your  ain  baulks !" 
said  Adam  McQuhirr,  to  whose  strong  arms  the  trans- 
port of  a  boy  like  Daid,  even  up  a  crazy  ladder,  was  a 
light  and  easy  task. 

It  was  six  of  the  morning  when  Dr.  Erasmus  Steven 
arrived  at  the  Gairie — a  wise,  silent  man,  whose  eyes  had 
seen  curious  sights  in  their  time,  but  whose  tongue  had 
never  mentioned  one  of  them — not  even  to  his  wife. 
Which  is  saying  no  little  for  a  country  practitioner  in  a 
district  where,  next  to  an  overruling  Providence,  the  dis- 
tributor of  news  is  the  greatest  bearer  of  blessings. 

The  tall  doctor  could  hardly  stand  upright  in  the  garret 
of  Aline's  cottage,  but  he  went  about  his  duties  with  that 
air  of  efficient  gentleness  which  not  palatial  halls  would 
have  enhanced. 

Finally  he  motioned  for  the  two  women  to  go  out — 
Aline,  who  had  stood  trembling,  and  Adora,  who  had 
been  his  helper,  holding  herself  as  sedate  and  composed 
as  if  she  had  done  nothing  but  assist  a  surgeon  all  her  life. 
Then,  seeing  Daid  a  little  recovered,  he  got  out  his 
sheaf  of  paper  slips  on  which  he  was  accustomed  to  write 
down  his  notes  and  prescriptions. 


254  STRONG  MAC 

"Do  you  hear  me  and  understand  what  I  say?"  he 
asked,  looking  the  boy  in  the  eyes,  as  the  grey  light  of  the 
forenoon  fell  upon  him  on  the  little  bed  beneath  the  sky- 
light in  Aline's  garret  room. 

Daid  nodded.  The  dazed  look  left  momentarily  his 
eyes. 

"Then,"  said  the  doctor,  "write  me  the  name  of  the  man 
who  did  this,  on  the  sheet  of  paper  I  put  before  you.  I  am 
a  magistrate.  It  is  a  dastardly  affair,  and,  as  soon  as  may 
be,  we  must  get  to  the  bottom  of  it !" 

The  expression  on  the  face  of  the  boy  never  changed  as 
he  listened.  He  took  the  pencil  and  wrote.  With  a  glow 
of  satisfaction  on  his  impassive  face  the  doctor  watched 
him.  But  this  faded  as  he  read  the  three  words  in  Daid's 
laborious  boyish  script. 

"I  tfinna  ken!" 

Dr.  Erasmus  paused  and  frowned  as  when  he  had  an 
awkward  case  to  diagnose.  He  pushed  the  paper  back 
again  into  Daid's  hands,  saying,  "Tut,  tut,  this  will  never 
do — such  a  thing  could  never  have  taken  place  without 
your  being  aware  of  the  personality  of  the  perpetrator. 
And  consider  the  importance  of  the  information.  It  may 
have  been  the  murderer  of  the  late  Mr.  Ewan  and  of  Mr. 
Sidney  Latimer,  into  whose  hands  you  have  fallen.  Try 
and  recollect  yourself.  I  ask  it  in  the  interests  of  justice." 

Again  certain  words  were  painfully  traced  out. 

"I  dinna  mind !" 

The  doctor,  thinking  that  perhaps  he  had  been  over- 
hasty,  or  that  he  had  made  his  appeal  in  a  manner  too 
official,  tried  again. 

"But,  my  boy,  you  do  not  realise  what  this  means  to 
all  of  us.  It  may  be  your  good  fortune  to  put  the  law  on 
the  track  of  a  dangerous  murderer.  Nay,  my  poor  lad, 
there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  a  very  serious  attempt 
to  murder  has  been  committed  on  your  own  person.  I 
have  seen  many  a  one  succumb  to  injuries  far  less  serious 
than  yours !" 

The  boy  lay  looking  up  at  Dr.  Erasmus  Steven  as  if 


DEVIL'S  WORK  255 

dazed  by  the  flow  of  words.  He  made  no  endeavour  to 
take  the  pencil  and  paper  again. 

The  doctor  decided  on  a  last  attempt,  though  he  saw 
that  his  patient's  strength  was  failing. 

''You  are  prevented  from  speaking  indeed,"  he  said, 
"but  your  eyesight  is  mercifully  preserved  to  you.  You 
have  the  hearing  of  your  ears.  Tell  me  how  this  terrible 
mutilation  happened.  Add,  if  possible,  a  brief  description 
of  your  assailant.  It  may  help  us  to  the  arrest  of  the 
culprit,  and  even  lead  to  consequences  more  important 
still !  You  will  certainly  be  rewarded !" 

As  if  driven  to  it  against  his  will  the  boy  seized  the 
pencil  and  wrote  long.  The  doctor  watched  him  eagerly. 
At  last  he  fell  back  exhausted.  The  pencil  rolled  on  the 
floor.  His  eyes  closed.  Dr.  Erasmus  Steven  almost  shook 
with  excitement.  What  if  he,  a  plain  country  practi- 
tioner, should  have  within  his  grasp  the  heart  of  the  mys- 
tery which  had  so  long  perplexed  his  ablest  legal  friends. 

He  read  the  words  which  the  boy  had  written,  clearly 
enough  expressed  with  his  own  official  pencil. 

"I  heard  nocht — 7  saw  nocht — 7  ken  nocht — mind  your 
ain  business!" 

With  unabated  good  humour  Dr.  Erasmus  Steven  re- 
tired defeated.  He  could  not  break  down  the  boy's  re- 
serve, but  he  had  sufficient  contempt  for  the  methods  of 
the  fiscal  not  to  report  the  case  at  St.  Cuthbertstown.  If 
there  was  anything  to  be  learned,  he  would  learn  it  first — 
he  and  not  another.  The  women,  who  had  so  strangely 
taken  it  into  their  heads  to  nurse  the  boy  might  perhaps 
succeed  where  he  had  failed.  But  they  did  not  know  what 
they  were  undertaking.  Injuries  of  that  kind  were  slow 
and  difficult  to  heal.  There  would  be  time  enough  to 
find  out  by  whom,  and  for  what  cause,  so  cruel  a  mutila- 
tion had  been  inflicted  upon  a  boy.  Dr.  Steven  knew  that 
time  is  the  best  detective  in  the  world,  and  that  woman  is 
an  excellent  second. 

So  in  the  "upstairs"  of  the  little  but-an'-ben  at  the 
Gairie  loan  end  abode  Adora's  messenger,  the  secret  of  his 


256  STRONG  MAC 

disaster  grimly  shut  up  within  his  own  heart.  His  eyes, 
indeed,  followed  every  motion  wistfully,  especially  when 
he  and  Adora  were  alone  together.  Sometimes  when  he 
heard  the  voice  of  the  Dominie  below  he  would  shrink, 
and  for  the  moment  appear  uneasy.  Perhaps  he  was 
remembering  the  nights  when  Adora  used  to  let  him  sleep 
about  the  peat  house  at  the  back  of  the  school  in  Lowran 
and  when  the  Dominie,  less  tender-hearted,  came  looking 
for  him  with  an  ash  plant. 

One  day,  of  his  own  accord,  Daid  signified  a  desire  for 
a  pencil  and  paper.  By  this  time  he  was  getting  a  little 
stronger  and  could  even  be  left  occasionally  to  himself  for 
an  hour  or  two.  These  were  the  words  which  he  wrote 
upon  the  paper. 

"When  is  he  to  be  tried?'' 

"In  Drumfern — at  the  Spring  Circuit,"  answered 
Adora,  instantly. 

Daid  fell  back  on  his  pillow,  and  though  he  only  lifted 
his  eyes  to  the  green  bubble  on  Aline's  skylight,  there  was 
a  prayer  in  them  that  reached  infinitely  higher. 

Then  he  wrote : 

"Leave  me  the  pencil,  if  ye  please!'' 

So,  his  request  granted,  all  that  morning,  at  intervals, 
Daid  wrote  painfully,  word  by  word,  with  long  rests  be- 
tween the  sentences.  Adora  would  come  on  him  again 
and  again  with  his  eyes  closed,  either  deep  in  thought  or 
recovering  after  exhaustion. 

At  last,  about  noon,  Daid  the  Deil  with  a  weak  hand  de- 
livered his  completed  message  to  Adora. 

"Laird  Latimer  is  no  deid — they  pressed  him  for  a  man 
to  fecht  on  the  King's  ships,  thinking  he  was  some  ither 
body.  But  he  got  aff,  and  has  gane  to  fecht  Bony,  because 
ye  wadna  hae  him — the  truth  as  sure  as  daith — David  Mc- 

Robb." 

******* 

It  was  an  important — an  all-important  communication, 
even  though  it  revealed  nothing  as  to  the  cause  of  Daid's 
own  misfortune.  In  an  instant  much  that  had  been  dark 


DEVIL'S  WORK  257 

was  clear  to  Adora  Gracie,  though  not  all.  Sidney  Lati- 
mer's  escape  from  death  she  had  been  in  a  manner  pre- 
pared for,  though  why  he  continued  silent  when  innocent 
men  were  in  danger  of  their  lives  had  not  previously  been 
explained. 

"They  pressed  him/'  Daid  had  said.  That  in  itself 
was  likely  enough.  Pressing  parties  made  the  tour  of  the 
coast  of  Solway,  and  one  likely  young  fellow  was  as 
liable  as  another  to  be  knocked  on  the  head  and  hurried 
aboard  ship,  in  these  times  when  recruits  were  so  hard 
to  get  for  his  Majesty's  marine,  presently  at  war,  both 
with  the  Old  World  and  the  New. 

The  truth  of  the  second  part  of  the  message  was  more 
difficult  for  Adora  to  accept.  If  a  young  man  could  not 
have  all  that  he  wanted,  it  was  surely  weak  to  run  away. 
And — at  any  rate  he  ought  to  have  let  his  mother  know 
where  he  was.  Still,  Sidney  Latimer  had  never  been  like 
other  young  men  of  his  class  or  station.  He  was  a  spoilt 
child.  Even  as  a  man  Adora  recalled  his  sulks  in 
the  matter  of  Strong  Mac,  and  her  final  rebuke  to 
him. 

It  was  quite  possible,  she  thought,  that  such  a  man 
might  take  himself  off  to  the  wars  without  a  word  said  to 
any  one.  It  was  possible  he  might  even  think  himself  in 
some  way  quits  with  Adora  by  so  doing.  Young  men 
were  apt  to  take  curious  things  into  their  heads — of  which 
she  was  not  without  her  experiences. 

How  serious  might  not  such  childishness  turn  out  to 
be  in  its  consequences!  Yet  it  was  quite  possible  that, 
pressed  for  his  Majesty's  marines,  and  escaping  by 
chance,  or  by  some  revelation  of  his  quality,  Sidney  Lati- 
mer had  taken  service  with  the  land  forces  either  in  Spain 
or  America. 

Nay,  was  there  not  a  certain  friend  of  his  of  whom  he 
had  spoken,  an  officer  in  the  army  of  my  Lord  Wellington, 
presently  under  arms  in  the  Peninsula?  Doubtless  he 
would  make  his  way  thither.  As  to  this  there  was  no  cer- 
tainty. Yet  if  Adora  could  not  get  word  to  Sidney  Latimer 


258  STRONG  MAC 

in  time,  Roy  McCulloch  (and  his  father)  would  almost 
certainly  be  hanged  for  the  murder  of  a  living  man. 

This,  then,  was  the  problem  which  Adora  Gracie  had  to 
solve.  Sidney  Latimer  was  alive.  But  if  he  did  not  appear 
at  the  trial  of  the  McCullochs  at  the  Drumfern  sessions, 
innocent  blood  would  be  spilt.  Though  she  tried  more 
than  once,  Daid  could  give  her  no  information  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  missing  man.  She  did  not  know  the 
name  of  his  friend  in  the  army,  nor  yet  with  any  cer- 
tainty whether  he  was  still  with  my  Lord  Wellington.  A 
letter — a  messenger?  But  how  could  she  depend  on  that 
letter  or  messenger  being  in  time,  or  discovering  Sidney 
Latimer  in  the  constantly  changing  camps  of  the  British 
army,  then  fighting  a  succession  of  the  most  hardly  con- 
tested battles  of  the  Spanish  campaign  ? 

Then  as  to  a  messenger,  whom  could  she  trust  to  go? 

Swift  as  a  flash,  the  solution  came  to  Adora,  as  all  great 
thoughts  come. 

She  must  go  herself — to  Spain — to  the  armies.  At 
whatever  risk,  at  whatever  cost,  go  she  must.  It  was 
the  sole  means  of  preserving  the  McCullochs  and — of 
preventing  Sidney  Latimer  from  being  the  cause,  through 
his  own  sullen  temper  of  the  death  of  two  innocent  men. 

In  sum,  there  seemed  to  Adora  nothing  for  it  but  this 
— she  herself  must  go  to  Spain  and  bring  back  Sidney 
Latimer  to  the  Drumfern  sessions.  No  matter  what  peo- 
ple said,  she  must  seek  him — she  must  find  him. 

No  matter  (and  this  was  the  most  serious  reflection  of 
all  to  Adora  Gracie),  no  matter  what  Sidney  Latimer  him- 
self might  think,  she  must  bring  him  back  to  do  his  duty. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  "FORTUNE'S  QUEEN" 

THAT  long  serrated  line  of  indigo  blue,  flecked  with 
touches  of  remote  white,  was  the  coast  of  Spain.  Adora 
looked  at  it  with  a  heart  that  struggled  to  be  brave.  She 
had  done  this  for  what — for  whom?  The  little  household 
gods  of  the  schoolhouse,  hitherto  stored  in  Cairn  Edward, 
had  passed  into  the  possession  of  others  that  she  might 
come  hither.  She  had  left  her  father  a  burden  on  Aline. 
An  additional  loan  (Adora  thought  of  it  with  shame)  had 
been  obtained  from  the  farmer  of  Gairie  through  Aline's 
mediation.  All  these  things  weighed  on  the  heart  of  the 
young  girl  beyond  even  the  thought  of  the  strange  coun- 
try and  the  warring,  unknown  peoples  among  whom  she 
was  soon  to  find  herself. 

On  Adam  McQuhirr's  part  there  had  been  great  will- 
ingness to  lend,  even  to  give,  with  the  sole  stipulation  that 
his  wife  should  not  be  told  of  his  generosity. 

"It  wasna  her  that  brocht  the  siller  into  the  hoose,  and 
it  winna  hurt  her  no  to  ken  how  it  gangs  oot!"  was 
Adam's  view  of  the  matter. 

But  his  kindness  had  gone  further.  Most  opportunely 
he  remembered  that  when  a  laddie  he  had  "shorn  on  the 
next  rig"  along  with  a  callant  who  had  afterwards  taken  to 
the  sea.  "And  they  tell  me/'  he  added,  "that  he's  up  to  the 
neck  in  the  Portugal  traffic.  It's  maistly  the  Oporto  wine, 
ye  ken,  that  the  Government  are  sae  keen  to  hae  fowk 
drink  nooadays,  and,  fegs,  if  there's  a  drappie  gaun  Ebie 
Sinclair  is  fell  sure  to  be  in  the  thick  o't !" 


2<5o  STRONG  MAC 

So  after  many  backs  and  forths  of  letter-writing  un- 
kindly to  the  farmer's  stiff  fingers,  Adam  McQuhirr  had 
set  Adora  on  board  Captain  Ebenezer  Sinclair's  ship  at 
Port  Glasgow.  As  it  happened,  he  had  business  at  Fal- 
kirk — a  debt  to  collect  (as  he  asserted),  for  "some  twal' 
score  o'  as  guid  hoggets  as  ever  gaed  to  tryst  or  market. 
And  gin  the  man  bena  at  Falkirk  on  the  Monday,  he  is 
sure  to  be  i'  the  Grassmarket  o'  Edinburgh  i'  the  Wednes- 
day!" 

At  any  rate  it  was  obviously  an  easy  thing  for  Adam  to 
see  Adora  on  board  the  Fortune's  Queen  as  she  lay  off 
Port  Glasgow,  ready  to  spread  her  wings  for  flight,  along 
with  other  twenty  sails,  escorted  by  three  of  his  Majesty's 
war  frigates  as  a  convoy,  and  their  destination,  as  at 
present  announced,  the  mouth  of  the  Tagus. 

Ebenezer  Sinclair  proved  to  be  a  gruff,  bearded  man 
whose  vocabulary  of  Galloway  Scots  had  taken  on  no 
other  sea-change  except  a  slight  flavour  of  the  Tail  of  the 
Bank.  He  received  Adora  without  enthusiasm,  indeed 
with  a  certain  daunting  severity. 

"Ye  are  a  daft  lassie,"  he  said,  glowering  at  her  under 
his  eyebrows,  "to  gang  sae  far  for  ony  man,  and  into 
siccan  a  country.  But — I  kenned  your  faither  afore  ye, 
and  onything  that  Captain  Ebenezer  Sinclair  can  do  for 
ye  shall  no  be  found  wantin' !" 

Once  on  deck  he  called  Adora  to  him  as  he  stood  con- 
ning the  ship  down  the  narrow  muddy  river,  and  in  the 
intervals  of  proclaiming  Anathema  Maranatha  upon  all 
sailor-men,  he  gave  her  sundry  counsels  of  utility. 

"I'm  a  rough  man,  lassie,"  he  said,  "ye  will  often  hae  to 
excuse  my  ill-scrapit  tongue,  but,  ye  see,  thae  waistrils 
gathered  aff  the  seeven  seas  wadna  understand  ony  ither 
kind  o'  talk.  But  it  will  be  as  weel  for  ye  to  say,  gin  ony 
body  speers,  that  Ebenezer  Sinclair  o'  Port  Glasgow  is 
your  uncle,  and  that,  as  ye  are  on  his  business,  he  will 
answer  ony  questions  that  folk  hae  to  ask.  And  when  ye 
win  to  the  airmy,  haud  nae  talk  wi'  this  yin  or  that, 
neither  wi'  sargeant's  cane  nor  cockit  hat,  but  gang 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  "FORTUNE'S  QUEEN"    261 

straight  to  my  Lord  Wellington  himsel'!  An'  when  ye 
meet  on  wi'  him,  says  you  to  him,  'My  'Lord,  I  am  a 
decent  Scots  lass,  the  niece  o'  Captain  Ebenezer  Sinclair 
o'  Port  Glasgow,  that  has  dune  an  obleegement  or  twa  for 
your  Lordship  in  his  time,  and  naething  said  about  it!' 
Dinna  be  feared  o'  his  crooked  neb  an'  his  grand  ways. 
Haud  till  him,  and  aye  keep  mindin'  him  o'  your  Uncle 
Ebenezer.  Then  oot  wi'  your  askin',  lassie — an'  the  Lord 
be  mercifu'  to  ye !  For  me,  I  wuss  I  had  been  a  younger 
man  to  hae  a  lass  come  that  far  for  the  sake  o'  me.  No  but 
what  I  hae  seen  the  day — aye,  and  let  it  slip  awa'  frae  me 
like  a  slack-handed  villain !  And  noo  I  am  ower  auld  for 
ony  young  thing  to  gang  to  the  doorstep  for  the  sake  o' 
my  auld  cankered  veesage,  wrinkled  and  wizened  up  like 
a  year-auld  tawtie !" 

So,  as  Adora  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  Fortune's 
Queen  of  Port  Glasgow,  it  was  as  niece  of  the  captain 
and  owner  of  that  stout  brig  that  she  made  her  passage. 
She  had  a  Spanish  grammar  and  dictionary  constantly  in 
her  hand,  and  she  laboured  hard  at  the  language,  enlarg- 
ing the  scanty  vocabulary  which  Sharon  McCulloch  had 
taught  her  during  those  summer  evenings,  in  the  intervals 
of  his  tales  of  the  old-time  free-trade  and  his  explanation 
of  the  nicks  on  the  handle  of  the  Leonese  knife. 

Besides  the  master  there  were  two  young  officers  on 
board,  the  first  and  second  mates,  both  hailing  "oot  o'  the 
Clyde."  John  White,  the  first  mate,  was  a  tall,  blonde  son 
of  Anak,  with  a  sort  of  gentle  perspiration  always  break- 
ing over  him,  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  caused  the 
crew  to  dub  him  Sweatin'  Jock.  The  other,  Edgar  Hil- 
lowton,  was  a  stoutish  thick-set  little  man  with  a  tre- 
mendous voice,  and  a  fist  like  the  Day  of  Judgment.  So 
that  if  the  crew  had  any  nickname  for  him,  they  confined 
it  strictly  to  the  forecastle. 

A  well-found  ship  was  the  Fortune's  Queen.  There 
was  no  lack  of  sound  viand  or  excellent  water  on  board, 
nor  was  the  "auld  man"  at  all  stingy  with  a  drop  of  grog 
upon  occasion.  But  it  was  a  working  ship.  If  any  A.  B. 


262  STRONG  MAC 

did  not  do  the  whole  duty  of  man  aboard,  he  heard 
about  it  unto  demonstration,  and  the  next  time  was  apt  to 
do  it  on  the  run. 

Adora  thought  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the  fine  swift  war 
frigates  working  the  convoy  like  shepherd's  dogs,  bring- 
ing up  the  laggards,  restraining  the  clean-heeled,  and,  as 
often  as  a  clump  of  sails  showed  suspect  above  the  hori- 
zon, forming  up  for  defence,  the  black  muzzles  of  the  guns 
at  the  portholes,  ready  to  fight  to  the  death  for  the  com- 
merce committed  by  them.  Verily,  as  our  great  enemy 
said,  in  1813,  we  were  a  nation  of  shopkeepers — only  the 
shopkeepers  could  fight  and  did  fight  for  their  shops,  and 
above  all  for  the  right  of  the  highway  of  the  sea  upon 
which  to  bring  home  their  wares. 

The  coast  of  Spain  was  steel-grey  and  ragged  in  the  dis- 
tance, when  there  shot  out  towards  the  convoy  a  swift 
Basque  schooner,  crusted  to  the  masthead  with  the  salt 
Biscay  spray.  The  three  British  frigates  instantly  closed 
in.  There  ensued  a  going  and  coming  of  messages,  hot 
consultations,  and  in  an  hour  the  direction  of  the  whole 
convoy  was  changed.  San  Sebastian  had  been  taken  with 
infinite  fury  and  shame.  The  Port  of  Bilbao  was  in 
British  hands,  and  my  Lord  Wellington  was  calling  up 
every  soldier  and  every  pound  of  provend  and  ounce  of 
ammunition  for  his  dash  across  the  Pyrenees  into  France. 

Among  others,  the  Fortune's  Queen  received  orders 
to  cross  the  bar  of  the  Nervion  and  disload  her  cargo  at 
the  quays  of  the  port  of  Bilbao. 

Through  the  white  breaking  surf  the  ship  of  Captain 
Ebenezer  Sinclair  took  her  way  to  her  new  destination. 
The  narrow  Nervion  with  the  straight  quays  of  Bilbao  on 
either  side,  seemed,  after  the  leaping  surges  of  Biscay,  no 
more  than  an  ugly  ditch. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  and  rising  tier  above  tier  up  the 
hillside,  Adora  saw  the  white  houses  of  the  town  of  many 
sieges,  and  the  wooded  heights  that  stand  about  it.  She 
heard  the  speech  of  the  chill  disdainful  Basque  folk,  proud 
of  their  fueros,and  their  unknown  ancient  descent.  Mixed 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  "FORTUNE'S  QUEEN"    263 

with  these  were  the  soldiers  of  a  dozen  nationalities, 
British,  Spanish,  Portuguese,  Brazilians,  Hanoverians, 
Swiss.  A  clamour  of  voices,  a  swarm  of  men,  not  a 
woman  to  be  seen  anywhere — such  was  Adora's  first  im- 
pression of  Spain  from  the  ship's  deck. 

The  captain  of  the  Fortune's  Queen  was  abundantly 
fitted  to  hold  his  own  in  such  a  scene.  Never  had  the 
virtues  of  Gallwegian  vocabulary,  added  to  the  powers  of 
vituperation  acquired  along  the  water-front  of  fifty  ports, 
stood  the  stout  mariner  in  better  stead.  He  sent  Adora 
down  to  his  cabin  and  saw  to  the  closing  of  the  portholes. 
Then  he  went  on  deck  and  expressed  his  opinions  with  a 
sober  joyous  freedom. 

"It's  as  weel  Mr.  McPhail  o'  St.  Cuthbert's  disna  hear 
me,  or  I  wad  hae  sma'  chance  o'  the  next  eldership  when  I 
get  name,"  he  confided  to  Jock  White,  his  first  mate,  who 
stood  by  his  side  with  a  pistol  in  each  pocket.  "But  faith, 
this  is  nae  place  to  be  askin'  a  blessin'  afore  meat  in! 
The  strong  hand,  the  primed  pistol,  and  the  braid  aith — 
them's  the  jockies  that  will  bring  ye  safe  hame  to  your 
wife  an*  sma'  family !  An'  after  that,  ye  can  gang  to  the 
kirk  three  times  ilka  Sabbath  to  square  the  accoont,  gin 
it  happens  that  your  conscience  checks  ye !" 

And  it  is  to  be  feared  that  in  1813  these  were  largely 
the  moral  principles  of  the  Scot  abroad.  They  have 
altered  since,  of  course. 

Now,  Captain  Ebenezer  was  a  stout  and  valiant  sailor, 
and  he  had  kept  the  type  of  his  farming-stock  intact 
through  years  of  sea-spray  and  wind-tan.  Also  his  heart, 
unknown  to  himself,  had  grown  warm  for  his  girl  pas- 
senger. He  knew  the  peril  of  her  journey,  the  wild  places 
into  which  she  must  venture,  and  in  especial  he  heard  with 
terror  and  shame  the  unspeakable  details  of  the  sack  of 
San  Sebastian,  the  deepest  disgrace  with  which  the  British 
army  have  ever  been  attainted.  Small  wonder,  then,  that 
he  feared  for  Adora,  and  he  resolved  that  he,  a  country- 
man and  a  bachelor,  without  a  soul  to  mourn  for  him  or 
the  bond  of  tie  domestic,  should  undertake  the  girl's  task 


264  STRONG  MAC 

while  she  remained  by  the  vessel,  or  if  that  would  not 
content  her,  he  would  accompany  Adora  on  her  quest. 

The  next  evening  after  supper  he  opened  out  his  plan. 

"Lassie,"  he  said,  "I  am  an  auld  carle,  but  like  an  aik 
tree  in  the  plantin — gye  an'  sturdy  aboot  the  girth.  I  will 
never  tak'  ony  maiden's  e'e  for  my  beauty,  though  some 
that  I  ken  o'  micht  do  waur  than  draw  up  wi'  the  auld 
sailor-man  into  a  snug  bit  anchorage  wi'  white  stanes 
about  the  door,  and  gravelled  walks,  and  maybe  a  painted 
figurehead  or  twa  set  up  aneath  the  flagstaff.  But,  lassie, 
that's  neither  here  nor  there — an'  we'll  e'en  let  that  flee 
stick  to  the  waa' !" 

The  captain  of  the  Fortune's  Queen  rested  his  eyes  a 
moment  or  two  a  little  sadly  on  Adora,  who  sat  with  her 
slender  pocket-book  open  before  her.  He  had  been 
changing  ten  of  her  slender  store  of  English  guineas 
into  Spanish  dollars,  which  now  sat  squatly  before  her  in  a 
canvas  bag.  Certainly  Ebenezer  Sinclair  of  the  good 
ship  Fortune's  Queen  had  not  made  money  by  the  ex- 
change. 

"Aweel,  lassie,"  he  continued,  seeing  she  did  not  an- 
swer, "we'll  say  nae  mair  aboot  that.  Auld  Captain 
Ebenezer  made  his  bed  lang  syne,  and  noo  them  that  he 
wad  tak'  winna  hae  him,  and  them  that  wad  tak'  him  he 
wadna  hae  at  a  bargain.  But,  lassie,  ye  can  look  in  the 
glass,  and  if  ever  on  your  travels  ye  come  across  onybody 
that  micht  pass  for  your  born  sister,  you  juist  send  word 
to  the  auld  captain,  and  fegs,  Ebenezer  Sinclair  will  brush 
himsel'  up,  and  pit  on  his  Sunday  coat,  an'  syne  aff  to  try 
his  luck!" 

Adora  smiled,  but  still  said  nothing.  There  was  a  little 
pile  of  dollars  laid  in  a  place  by  themselves  which  seemed 
to  belong  to  nobody.  These  were  the  covenanted  pieces 
for  Adora's  passage  money,  presently  in  dispute  between 
them. 

"Na,  na,"  said  the  captain,  "na,  na,  lass.  Your  bite  and 
your  sup  are  neither  here  nor  there!  And  faith,  if  ye 
count  a'  the  repairs  ye  hae  made  in  my  wardrobe — no  to 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  "FORTUNE'S  QUEEN"    265 

gie  the  thing  a  mair  intimate  name — faith,  I'm  thinkin'  the 
balance  micht  weel  be  on  the  ither  side !  When  I  cam' 
f  rae  the  Tail  o'  the  Bank,  I  declare  I  had  never  a  hale  clout 
to  sit  me  doon  on — and  now  I  micht  dance  the  Heelant 
Fling  afore  the  Queen  hersel',  God  bless  her,  and  never 
be  shamed !  Siller,  na,  faith !  If  there's  ony  siller  gangin', 
it's  Captain  Ebenezer  Sinclair  that  will  hae  to  pay  the 
piper!" 

"But,  captain,"  said  Adora,  with  genuine  distress  in  her 
voice,  "it  was  agreed  between  us.  Mr.  McQuhirr  of  the 
Gairie  told  me  himself  that  the  charge  for  my  passage 
was  exceedingly  reasonable,  and,  indeed,  take  it  you 
must !" 

And  she  pushed  the  little  pile  of  pieces  towards  the  old 
sailor,  who  looked  at  the  dollars  as  if  each  might  be  ex- 
pected to  bite.  Then  he  shook  his  head  still  more  em- 
phatically. 

"Na,  na,  lassockie,"  he  said,  "Captain  Ebenezer  has  no 
come  to  that  o't  yet,  that  he  wad  tak'  the  hard-won  siller  o' 
a  Lowran  lass  wha  has  corned  to  a  foreign  land  to  save  a 
lad  frae  the  wuddy  (gallows) !  And  mair  nor  that, 
hearken  you  to  me,  mistress,  ye  are  gangin'  to  nae 
misleared  airmy  by  yoursel' — Captain  Ebenezer  Sinclair 
couldna  sleep  soond  in  his  bunk  for  thinkin'  ot !  The  ship 
is  braw  and  safe  wi'  Sweatin'  Jock  White  there  and  Lang- 
airmed  Hillowton  to  look  after  her,  no  to  speak  o'  thae 
deevils  o'  artillerymen  up  there  on  the  hillside  wi'  their 
pieces  loaded  to  the  muzzle.  Na,  na,  Gallowa'  is  Gallowa', 
and  it  shall  never  be  said  that  a  Gallowa'  man  let  a 
Gallowa'  lass  gang  her  lane  into  sic  a  deil's  byke  o'  wick- 
edness as  the  camp  o'  the  allied  armies.  Guid's  truth, 
no!" 

And  though  Adora  strove  valiantly  to  carry  out  alone 
what  she  had  imagined  alone,  the  sturdy  sober  determina- 
tion of  the  veteran  was  too  much  for  her. 

And  when  she  left  the  gate  of  Bilbao  with  a  pass  from 
the  governor,  the  stout  sailorlike  figure  of  Captain 
Ebenezer  Sinclair  marched  at  the  right  hand  of  her  mule. 


266  STRONG  MAC 

In  vain  in  that  land  of  cavaliers  had  she  besought  him 
to  ride  also. 

"It's  no  for  me  at  my  time  o'  life  to  be  temptin'  Provi- 
dence on  ony  beast's  riggin' !"  was  all  his  answer.  And  so 
he  trudged  along  stoutly,  with  a  complete  pirate's  arma- 
ment at  his  belt,  careless  of  the  amusement  the  convoy 
caused  to  the  entire  garrison  of  Bilbao. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 
ENEMY'S  COUNTRY. 

LUCKILY  for  the  little  cavalcade  which  went  forth  from 
the  gate  of  Bilbao,  on  the  side  which  looks  along  the  hill- 
foreheads  towards  San  Sebastian,  they  came  across  many 
parties  taking  their  way  northeastward,  with  stores  for  the 
troops,  arms  and  ammunition  for  headquarters.  Among 
these  were  several  transport  officers  who  had  been  long 
in  Spain  and  who  knew  Captain  Ebenezer  well.  To  them 
the  master  of  ships  frankly  explained  himself. 

"Noo,  hearken/'  he  said,  "ye  ken  Eben  Sinclair  frae 
Gallowa' !  Or  if  ye  dinna,  it's  time  ye  did.  His  word  is 
as  guid  as  his  aith,  though  whiles  no  juist  sae  convincin' 
amang  sailor-folk.  Weel,  here  is  Eben,  cut  adrift  frae  his 
ship  and  wi'  a  bonny  bit  craft  in  tow.  Noo,  it's  nae  use 
speakin'  to  thae  haythen  fowk.  Them  I'll  shoot  at  the  first 
word,  gin  yin  o'  them  meddles  the  lass.  But  as  for  you, 
ye  are  bauld  birkies  and  understand  a  guid  Scots  tongue. 
Noo  the  lass  is  no  for  you,  nor  for  your  like.  She's  my  ain 
sister's  dochter,  gin  it  behoves  ye  to  ken — and  she  is  gaun 
to  find  a  certain  Captain  Sidney  Latimer  that  was  last 
heard  o'  here  in  the  King's  airmies.  So  her  and  me  are 
gangin'  to  my  Lord  Wellington  to  get  news  o'  the  lad. 
And  if  ony  man,  be  he  French  or  English,  Scot,  Irisher  or 
black  Don  Dumbolino,  sets  a  finger  on  the  lass  that's  kin 
to  Ebenezer  Sinclair,  he  will  find  himsel'  shot  oot  o'  hand, 
and  then  if  he's  no  deid,  my  friend  wi'  the  crookit  nose 


268  STRONG  MAC 

will  forthwith  order  him  to  be  hanged  for  a  warnin'  to  a* 
blackguards.    That's  a' !" 

******* 

The  headquarters  of  Lord  Wellington's  armies  was 
presently  at  the  village  of  Estella,  a  tumble  of  white  houses 
with  rickety  green  sun  shutters,  streets  of  alternate  mud 
and  ankle-deep  dust,  white  as  flour,  a  village  that  scram- 
bled and  struggled  up  a  grey  hillside  in  the  heart  of  the 
Pyrenees.  By  its  position  Estella  forms  a  natural  strong- 
hold, and  all  war  commanders  have  striven  for  its  posses- 
sion, from  the  earliest  guerillas  who  withstood  the  Roman 
arms  to  the  last  Carlists,  who  tried  hard  to  put  life  into  the 
bleaching  bones  of  a  dead  cause. 

But  Estella  was  many  long  leagues  across  the  moun- 
tains, the  way  thither  perilous  with  desperate  unfed  men 
who  cared  not  in  what  way,  or  from  whose  military  train, 
their  bellies  were  filled. 

The  last  months  of  Wellington's  sojourn  in  Spain  were 
marked  by  the  growing  brigandage  of  the  country  popula- 
tions, and  by  the  stern  methods  of  repression  which  in 
turn  caused  the  Spaniards  of  the  northwest  to  hate  the 
British  troops  more  bitterly  than  the  French  themselves. 

Nor  was  this  wholly  the  fault  of  the  Spaniards.  From 
the  first  they  had  lacked  generals,  and  indeed  officers  of 
any  rank,  in  whom  they  could  have  confidence.  Their  large 
armies  never  had  any  commissariat  worthy  of  the  name. 
Their  troops  in  the  field  were  never  fed  save  when  partak- 
ing with  British  soldiers,  never  paid  except  out  of  the 
British  army  chests — above  all,  if  they  were  caught 
plundering  while  near  the  provost-marshals  of  "El  Gran 
Lor"  they  were  promptly  and  remorselessly  hung. 

Therefore,  it  was  no  wonder  if  the  sack  of  San  Sebas- 
tian rankled  in  the  hearts  of  such  men,  and  if,  hungry  and 
desperate,  with  winter  closing  in  upon  them,  these  starving 
bands  flung  themselves  fiercely  upon  Wellington's  rear, 
and  cut  off  his  details  and  provision  trains  as  if  he  had 
been  in  an  enemy's  country. 

Towards  evening  on  the  third  day,  after  leaving  Bilbao, 


ENEMY'S  COUNTRY  269 

the  small  convoy  of  fourteen  mules,  with  an  equal  number 
of  muleteers,  the  four  British  transport  officers,  and  our 
two  voyagers  arrived  at  the  little  hill  village  of  Hernani. 
Indeed  it  was  hardly  a  village — a  "farm  town"  rather,  as 
they  would  say  in  Scotland — which  denotes  a  large  farm 
house  with  offices.  Yet  Hernani  was  almost  like  a 
fortress,  its  walls  loopholed  and  ready  for  defence,  the 
cluster  of  huts  for  herdsmen  and  labourers  well  away  from 
the  main  buildings,  while  at  the  end  of  the  little  street  was 
a  venta,  or  public  house,  of  the  commonest  kind,  the  imme- 
morial haunt  of  brigands  and  broken  men  of  all  sorts. 

No  caution  was  used  by  the  four  British  officers — all  of 
them  sergeants  of  commissariat,  except  one,  a  warrant 
officer  on  loan  from  a  frigate.  They  cared  nothing  for  the 
muleteers,  speaking  to  them  as  to  so  many  dogs,  and 
treating  their  silent  resentment  as  sulkiness  to  be  exor- 
cised with  blows  and  curses. 

The  chamber  of  their  first  lodging  at  Hernani  was  the 
common  room  of  the  venta.  But  the  British  sergeants, 
loudly  swearing  that  the  place  was  not  good  enough  for 
an  English  dog-kennel  (which  was  true  enough),  made 
bold  to  demand  quarters  of  the  owner  of  the  farm,  Don 
Juan  Hernani,  recently  returned  to  his  patrimony  after  a 
prolonged  expulsion  during  the  French  occupation. 

The  night  was  already  falling  rapidly,  and  at  these  alti- 
tudes the  cold  begins  to  bite  keenly.  The  sergeants  ham- 
mered on  the  door  with  the  butts  of  their  guns  and  shouted 
impatiently  for  the  inmates  to  open.  At  last  with  infinite 
creaking  of  bolts  and  jingling  of  chains  the  great  door 
was  opened,  and  a  tall,  stoop-shouldered  old  man  stood  be- 
fore them,  a  lantern  in  his  hand. 

"What  might  it  happen  to  your  Honours  to  require  at 
the  door  of  this  poor  house  ?"  said  the  man  with  the  utmost 
formal  politeness. 

The  four  officers  were  about  to  brush  past  him  with 
a  rough  word,  after  the  manner  of  their  kind.  But  Adora, 
who  had  not  forgotten  certain  lessons  in  Spanish  character 
which  the  ex-smuggler,  Sharon  McCulloch,  had  given  her, 


2;o  STRONG  MAC 

along  with  the  Leonese  knife,  went  forward  and,  taking 
the  old  man's  hand,  kissed  it,  saying  in  her  pretty  broken 
child's  Spanish,  "We  ask  only  your  hospitality  for  the 
night!" 

The  old  man  instantly  took  his  lantern  in  the  other  hand 
and  offered  his  arm  to  Adora. 

"Your  Ladyship's  house  is  at  your  service,"  he  said. 
"Permit  an  old  man  to  attend  you  to  your  chamber !" 

So  it  came  about  that  for  that  night  Adora  was  lodged 
as  a  grandee  of  the  first  class,  while  in  the  wide  kitchen  or 
house-place,  the  three  sergeants,  the  warrant  officer,  and 
Captain  Ebenezer  waited  upon  themselves. 

Don  Juan  Hernani  occupied  two  or  three  rooms  of 
his  large  house.  The  rest  had  been  completely  gutted  by 
the  attentions  of  its  last  occupants,  the  soldiers  of  the 
Duke  of  Dalmatia.  But,  nevertheless,  the  old  Spaniard 
proved  himself  an  epicure  after  his  kind.  His  herdsmen 
had  brought  him  game  from  the  hills  in  celebration  of  his 
return,  and  he  prepared  and  cooked  it  in  little  casseroles  in 
a  tiny  kitchen,  attached  to  the  larger  sitting-room  by  a 
short  passage.  As  he  finished  the  preparation  of  each 
dish,  he  would  transfer  all  the  choicest  portions  to  Adora's 
plate,  putting  up  himself  with  a  crust  of  bread  soaked  in 
gravy,  and  sending  all  the  rest  down  to  his  guests  in  the 
kitchen.  Adora  and  her  friend,  Captain  Ebenezer,  did 
their  best  to  mediate  between  the  sensitive  exigencies  of 
Spanish  politesse  and  the  rough-and-tumble  of  soldiers, 
whom  the  years  of  campaigning  had  accustomed  to  take 
the  gifts  of  the  gods  without  either  "Prithee"  or  "By- 
your-leave !" 

Meanwhile  there  were  the  fourteen  muleteers.  All  day 
long  they  had  been  taking  words  and  blows  with  a  danger- 
ous quietude.  It  now  occurred  to  one  of  the  Englishmen 
that  they  had  better  see  how  the  Spaniards  were  spending 
their  time. 

"The  brutes  will  get  drunk,  ten  to  one !"  said  Sergeant 
Taddy,  who  hailed  from  the  leafy  lanes  and  brambly 
hedges  of  Essex,  where  such  methods  of  spending  the 


ENEMY'S  COUNTRY  271 


evening  are  not  uncommon.  "Anyway  they  will  never  be 
ready  for  the  morning  work  unless  we  stir  them  up  a  bit ! 
A  little  kicking  never  does  a  Don  any  harm!" 

It  was  by  such  methods  that  the  British  soldier  in  Spain 
has  left  a  name  and  fame  most  unsavoury  in  the  country 
he  delivered.  So  that  to-day  the  general  sympathy  is  more 
with  the  Frenchman  who  oppressed  and  enslaved  than 
with  the  Briton  who  shed  his  blood  to  deliver.  Which 
thing  shows  the  advantage  of  personal  good  manners  even 
in  warfare. 

Now,  Ebenezer  Sinclair,  like  a  cautious  old  ship's  cap- 
tain, had  insisted  upon  arrival,  that  the  ammunition  and 
valuable  lading  of  the  mules  should  be  placed  within  the 
farm  buildings  of  Hernani,  and  therefore  out  of  reach  of 
the  muleteers  and  their  allies — without,  that  is,  their  pass- 
ing through  the  house  of  Don  Juan,  or  breaking  down  the 
strongly  barred  gate  of  the  alqueria.  It  was  to  this 
thoughtful  naval  prevision  that  the  party  now  owed  its 
safety.  For  hardly  had  Sergeant  Taddy  and  his  friend, 
Warrant  Officer  Oswald,  passed  outside  the  door  than  a 
bullet  whistled  from  the  direction  of  the  venta  and  flat- 
tened itself  on  the  carved  work  of  the  lintel  close  to  his 
ear. 

"Back  into  cover !"  cried  the  sergeant.  "To  your  mus- 
kets, boys !  There's  fun  forward !" 

For  though  they  were  ready  enough  to  plunder  when 
they  had  the  chance,  as  well  as  prone  to  abuse  the  Span- 
iards for  "bally-banded  scattermouches,"  these  soldiers  of 
the  great  Peninsular  commander  were  never  so  well 
pleased  as  when  there  was  prospect  of  a  fight. 

"Can  you  load  muskets  ?"  they  asked  Adora  when  they 
were  back  again  in  the  kitchen. 

"No,  but  I  can  teach  her !"  answered  Captain  Ebenezer 
promptly,  before  the  girl  had  time  to  speak. 

"Well,  go  ahead  then,  captain,  there  are  plenty  in  that 
rack  over  the  mantelpiece.  And  keep  an  eye  on  the  old 
Don,"  said  Sergeant  Taddy.  "Blow  out  his  brains  if  he 
tries  any  of  his  Dago  tricks  on  true-born  Britons !" 


272  STRONG  MAC 

But  Don  Juan  Hernani  went  calmly  about  the  washing 
up  of  his  dishes,  doing  it  finically,  rubbing  the  plates, 
breathing  on  and  polishing  the  glasses,  even  examining 
them  critically  with  one  eye  closed,  and  so  on  till  he  was 
satisfied. 

Stray  shots  went  off  without.  There  were  loud  cries 
and  shrill  screams.  The  Englishmen  looked  at  one  an- 
other a  little  grimly,  and  sniffed  the  burnt  powder. 

"I  think  if  these  are  only  our  muleteers,"  said  Taddy  to 
Warrant  Officer  Oswald,  "the  business  will  not  be  a  long 
one." 

"If  by  the  grace  of  God  my  particular  rascal  has  come 
to  try  and  steal  my  saddle  bags,  which  are  the  property  of 
his  Majesty,"  cried  Sergeant  Taddy,  "I  shall  have  great 
pleasure  in  putting  a  bullet  through  him.  I  never  saw  a 
face  and  figure  better  fitted  for  being  set  up  between  a 
wall  and  a  firing  party." 

The  cries  took  on  more  distinctness.  The  shouters 
seemed  to  be  quite  near  the  doors  of  the  alqueria. 

"San  Sebastian !  Come  out,  and  die,  robbers  and  mur- 
derers !  Dogs  of  English !  Remember  San  Sebastian  and 
come  out !" 

"That  we  will!"  said  Sergeant  Taddy,  priming  his 
musket.  His  pair  of  pistols  lay  ready  on  the  table  before 
him.  "If  you  refuse  a  Spaniard's  invitation,  he  knifes  you, 
so  they  say.  If  you  accept,  you  die  of  the  grub  he  gives 
you !" 

"See  here,"  said  Oswald,  the  warrant  officer,  to  Cap- 
tain Ebenezer,  "none  of  us  can  speak  their  beastly  lingo. 
Just  you  ask  the  old  fellow  over  there  which  is  the  way 
to  a  window  or  a  balcony  that  will  overlook  his  front  door, 
will  you?"  Tell  him  he  is  to  come  himself — to  go  in 
front,  too!  And  by  the  Lord,  if  he  gives  us  away — well, 
there  will  be  a  good  government  pistol  within  two  inches 
of  his  ear!" 

All  this  while  Don  Juan  was  calmly  proceeding  with  his 
after-dinner  work  of  washing  up.  Adora  and  the  captain 
went  to  him  together,  and  then,  by  pooling  their  scanty 


ENEMY'S  COUNTRY  273 

store  of  Spanish,  finally  made  him  understand  the  request 
of  the  four  English  soldiers. 

"These  outside  there  are  but  sons  of  dogs,"  he  said, 
jerking  his  elbow  towards  the  door,  "they  will  not  venture 
here !  They  know  Don  Juan  Hernani !" 

"That  may  be,"  said  Captain  Ebenezer  in  English,  "but 
these  four  gentlemen  in  the  kitchen  are  somewhat  hasty 
in  their  manner.  You  see,  Sefior  Don,  they  are  in  charge 
of  a  considerable  amount  of  military  stores,  and  if  they 
lose  so  much  as  a  musket  or  a  pound  of  powder  it  will  be 
the  worse  for  them — !" 

"The  worse  for  some  other  folk  first!"  growled 
Warrant  Officer  Oswald,  who  had  come  to  the  door ;  "do 
tell  the  old  cockatoo  to  hurry  up.  We  can't  keep  these 
noisy  donkey  prickers  waiting  all  night !" 

Adora  managed  to  convey  the  substance  though  not  the 
form  of  these  observations  to  their  host,  who,  hanging  his 
towel  over  his  arm  to  give  it  the  benefit  of  the  drying  night 
air,  led  the  way  up  a  stone  staircase  in  the  angle  of  the 
wall. 

Adora  ascended  along  with  the  five  men,  chiefly  that 
she  might  not  be  left  alone  in  the  great  empty  salon.  In 
a  few  minutes  they  came  out  on  a  parapet,  roughly 
made  by  joining  two  parallel  walls  together  with  broad 
flagstones.  The  space  was  about  four  feet  wide,  and  ran 
along  the  whole  length  of  the  front  of  the  square  of  build- 
ings constituting  the  alqueria  of  Hernani. 

"Don't  let  the  rascals  glimpse  us !"  whispered  the  war- 
rant officer.  "I  claim  first  pot  shot." 

But  the  old  Don  was  already  some  way  along  the  battle- 
ments, his  white  hair  flying  in  the  wind.  In  the  dim  light 
of  the  pine  knots  and  pitch  torches  that  had  been  lighted 
below,  they  could  see  twenty  or  thirty  men  trying  to  force 
the  great  door  which  led  into  the  arcaded  courtyard,  where 
the  mule  loads  had  been  placed. 

The  old  Spaniard  ran  towards  them  along  the  parapet 
waving  his  towel  as  if  he  had  been  chasing  flies  out  of  a 
room. 


274  STRONG  MAC 

"Go  away !"  he  cried  in  the  country  speech,  "go  away 
quickly.  I  am  Don  Juan  Hernani,  and  I  desire  that  my 
guests'  property  should  be  respected." 

"Come  down  and  help  us,  Don  Juan,"  they  answered 
him,  "your  father  would  have  helped  us !  Aye,  or  your 
son  Don  Pedro  either,  who  is  with  his  partida  in  the  moun- 
tains. These  four  English  are  of  the  men  who  sacked  San 
Sebastian.  We  will  do  the  same  and  worse  to  them.  Open 
the  doors  to  us,  or  we  will  burn  your  farmhouse  about 
your  ears,  for  a  traitor  and  a  spy !" 

"Burn  and  welcome !"  cried  Don  Juan,  with  unexpected 
spirit,  "but  while  I  live  you  shall  not  steal  so  much  as  an 
ounce  of  salt  from  the  guests  of  my  house  of  Hernani !" 

A  volley  of  musketry  from  the  Englishmen  put  a  sharp 
end  to  the  colloquy.  They  had  stolen  along  under  cover 
of  the  battlements,  and  now  fired  directly  down  on  the 
group  who,  with  a  battering-ram  made  -of  the  trunk 
of  a  fir-tree,  were  endeavouring  to  burst  in  the  great 
door. 

"That  shook  the  rascals!"  cried  the  warrant  officer; 
"give  them  another  while  they  are  on  the  quake.  Quick, 
the  pistols !  They  are  near  enough  for  that !" 

And  leaning  over  the  walls,  the  four  shot  their  pistols 
point  blank  into  the  cluster  of  struggling  men  beneath 
them.  Adora  could  see  many  wounded,  who  limped  away 
into  shelter,  while  others  lay  on  the  ground  motionless. 
Fierce  yells  and  shouts  filled  the  air.  This  time  the  noise 
seemed  to  come  from  all  around  the  square  of  the  alqueria. 
Also  from  the  farther  end,  which  was  sheltered  from  sight, 
a  red,  unsteady  light  began  to  rise,  pulsing  against  the 
volumes  of  rolling  smoke  which  the  breeze  carried  tow- 
ards them  over  the  dark  quadrangle  of  buildings. 

"They  have  fired  the  cattle  fodder!"  cried  Don  Juan, 
clasping  his  hands ;  "it  is  all  that  the  Frenchmen  left.  Be- 
tween English  thieves,  French  thieves,  and  one's  own 
countrymen,  the  sooner  a  poor  old  man  is  quiet  in  the 
grave,  the  happier  for  him !  And  I  have  not  had  time  to 
hide  my  glass  and  silver  either !" 


ENEMY'S  COUNTRY  275 

And  with  that  he  was  hurrying  away  towards  the 
ground  floor. 

"Stop  him!"  cried  Sergeant  Taddy,  ''old  Gracios-a-Dios 
is  going  to  open  the  gates  to  that  howling  crew.  Stop 
him,  or  by  heaven,  sir,  I'll  stop  him  myself  as  quick  as 
wink,  with  a  bullet  in  the  back !  Stop  there,  I  say,  Senor 
Don !" 

Something  in  the  soldier's  tone,  even  more  than  Adora's 
warning  cry,  caused  Don  Juan  to  turn  back  in  time  to  pre- 
vent Sergeant  Taddy  from  carrying  out  his  threat. 

"Captain  Sinclair/'  said  the  warrant  officer,  "here  are  a 
pair  of  good  navy  pistols.  They  are  all  we  can  spare  you, 
but  you  have  plenty  of  muskets  and  ammunition  of  your 
own.  We  leave  you  here  in  charge  of  the  main  door.  We 
must  go  and  examine  the  other  side,  where  the  villains  are 
trying  to  fire  the  buildings.  Do  not  fail  to  shoot  any  one 
who  tries  to  enter  there.  You  see  the  door.  If  they 
bother  you  there,  wait  till  they  are  within  a  yard  of  it  and 
then  even  a  sailor  can't  miss.  If  you  lean  far  enough  over, 
you  can  put  the  muzzle  to  the  rascal's  ear,  and  have  the 
papist  in  Purgatory  in  two  shakes  of  a  cat  o'  nine  tails !" 

In  a  few  moments  the  long  parapeted  southern  wall  of 
the  alquerie  was  deserted,  save  for  Adora  and  Captain 
Ebenezer,  who,  with  his  own  armoury  and  the  pair  of 
pistols  which  he  had  confided  to  Adora,  stood  watching  the 
great  gate  which  the  partida  of  muleteers  and  brigands 
had  vainly  tried  to  force. 

Beneath,  faintly  visible,  could  be  seen  the  pine  trunk 
which  had  been  used  as  a  battering  ram.  A  man  was 
lying  behind  it  as  if  wounded.  It  was  very  dark,  but 
along  the  ground  there  lay  a  mild  phosphorescent  mist 
which  rendered  objects  faintly  visible.  In  a  little  while 
it  seemed  to  Captain  Sinclair  that  the  man  behind  the 
tree  trunk  had  moved.  He  had  been  quite  at  the  lower 
end.  Now  he  was  half  way  up  and  nearer  to  the  door  by 
at  least  a  couple  of  yards. 

"Adora,"  said  the  old  man  softly,  "is  that  man  lying 
still?" 


276  STRONG  MAC 

Adora  looked  intently.  Her  younger  eyes  could  make 
out  details  more  clearly. 

"He  is  moving,"  she  answered  at  last,  "and  he  is  hold- 
ing something  dark  in  his  hand  as  well !" 

"Keep  away  from  the  door/'  shouted  Captain  Ebenezer 
suddenly,  "or  I  fire!" 

The  man  hastily  threw  something  in  the  direction  of  the 
great  door,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  captain's  piece 
cracked.  The  man  broke  into  a  run  towards  the  woods, 
but  presently  stumbled  and  fell  on  his  face.  The  pro- 
jectile which  he  had  launched  at  the  door  struck  it  heavily, 
rebounded  a  little,  and  lay  between  the  bottom  of 
the  door  and  the  tree  trunk.  From  this  last  a  spark  of 
light  crawled  slowly  towards  it. 

"That  is  a  slow  match,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  I  am 
nothing  of  a  shot  or  I  could  cut  the  line !" 

"Give  me  the  musket,"  said  Adora,  "I  will  try.  I  can 
see  better  than  you,  and  the  distance  is  not  great !" 

She  aimed  in  the  centre  between  the  dark  mass  of  the 
bomb  and  the  creeping  wink  of  light. 

She  fired  once,  apparently  without  result.  Then  she 
leaned  as  far  over  as  she  dared  and  fired  a  second  musket. 
The  spark  crawled  on  for  some  time,  but  in  the  mfdst,  with 
a  little  bluish  jet  of  flame,  suddenly  went  out.  Adora  had 
cut  the  train  of  the  slow  match,  and,  for  the  time  being, 
saved  the  door  from  being  blown  in. 

Meantime  the  light  from  the  distant  northern  front  of 
Hernani  loomed  up  brighter,  the  lurid  smoke  bellied  out 
more  lurid  than  before,  while  shoutings  and  cries  of  pain 
came  to  their  ears  from  that  direction.  Ever  and  anon 
they  could  see,  cut  against  the  glare,  the  figures  of  the  four 
defenders  of  Hernani  as  they  leaned  over  and  fired  in  de- 
fence of  their  commissariat  loads. 

"This  is  poor  work !"  said  Captain  Ebenezer,  setting  his 
musket  against  the  wall ;  "if  I  had  not  got  my  orders  I 
would  be  over  yonder,  where  at  least  there's  something 
doing!" 

But  the  fire  died  down.    There  was  less  and  less  crack- 


ENEMY'S  COUNTRY  277 

ling  of  musketry.  The  shouting  seemed  further  off. 
Captain  Ebenezer  lit  his  pipe  with  a  flint  and  steel,  crouch- 
ing meanwhile  behind  the  parapet  of  the  roof.  Not  even 
Adora's  sharp  young  eyes  could  see  a  sign  of  an  enemy  on 
their  side  of  the  alqueria. 

Suddenly  from  the  darkness  of  the  wood  in  front  came 
an  astonishing  burst  of  flame,  against  which  the  entire 
quadrangle  of  building  stood  out  bright  as  day.  A  roar 
deafened  their  ears,  and  part  of  the  wall  by  the  gate 
crumbled  and  fell  forward  on  the  abandoned  battering 
ram  and  the  dead  men,  with  a  crash  of  shattered  stone  and 
lime. 

"God  in  His  heaven !"  cried  the  captain,  "all  our  throats 
are  as  good  as  cut !  They  have  got  a  cannon  somewhere. 
That  is  an  eight  pounder  at  the  least!" 

Once  more  the  cannon  spoke,  and  then  with  a  rush  up 
came  the  four  valiant  defenders — the  warrant  officer 
touched  in  the  arm  by  a  chance  bullet,  but  having  tied  a 
handkerchief  about  the  place,  making  nothing  of  it. 

"All  up,"  they  said,  "unless  we  can  find  some  under- 
ground place  in  which  to  hold  out  in  till  morning.  Some 
of  our  fellows  may  hear  us  and  turn  up !  The  fools  are 
making  enough  row  to  be  heard  twenty  miles  off!" 

The  gun  went  off  again,  the  ball  striking  the  gate  full 
this  time,  crashing  and  splintering  it  into  small  fragments 
of  wood  and  twisted  iron.  Still,  the  fear  of  the  growing 
light  and  of  these  five  inevitable  British  muskets,  which 
they  knew  were  waiting  for  them,  held  back  the  partida 
from  making  a  final  charge. 

But  at  the  longest  it  could  not  last  long.  Men  were  to 
be  seen  creeping  nearer  under  cover  of  trees  and  bushes, 
waiting  at  all  the  angles  of  the  alqueria,  and  lying  thick  in 
the  ditches  below  the  cattle  sheds. 

"Crash!"  The  last  fragments  of  the  gate  were  down 
this  time.  The  brigands  renewed  their  loud  shouts. 

"San  Sebastian !  San  Sebastian !  Death  to  the  Eng- 
lish !"  they  cried. 

But  at  the  very  moment  when  they  were  clear  of  the 


278  STRONG  MAC 

wood  a  storm  of  bullets  from  behind  lashed  their  rear. 
They  fled  this  way  and  that,  the  swift  horses  of  four  com- 
panies of  British  cavalry,  fiercely  riding  them  down. 
Swords  flashed  and  were  dulled  in  the  fast-coming-  dawn. 
The  little  cannon  was  captured,  and  just  as  the  morning 
broke,  a  young  officer  rode  up  to  the  gateway  of 
Hernani.  He  leaped  his  horse  over  the  debris  of  the 
planking,  and  so  made  his  way  fearlessly  into  the  court- 
yard of  Hernani. 

" What's  up  here?"  he  cried,  for  the  moment  seeing  no 
one. 

At  the  first  glance  Adora  had  precipitated  herself  tow- 
ards him.  She  ran  down  the  stairs  and,  without  know- 
ing how,  found  herself  clasping  Sidney  Latimer  round  the 
neck,  with  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  thank  God,"  she  cried,  "thank  God— I  have  found 
you — in  time!" 

And  she  was  not  even  conscious  that  the  young  man, 
struck  to  the  heart  by  this  greatest  marvel  of  earth,  had 
stooped  and  kissed  her  with  the  kiss  of  possession. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE    LATIMER   TEMPER. 

ADORA  awoke  from  a  brief  period  of  unconsciousness  to 
find  herself  the  centre  of  a  deeply  interested  group.  She 
was  still  in  Sidney  Latimer's  arms,  and  that  young  man 
seemed  to  have  no  intention  of  letting  her  go.  The  troop- 
ers of  "El  Gran  Lor"  tried  to  look  uninterested,  or  grinned 
broadly — according  to  their  upbringing.  There  was  even 
a  serene  smile  of  content  in  the  eyes  of  the  stout  sea-cap- 
tain. His  part  was  played.  He  had  brought  this  dainty 
craft  to  port.  Responsibility  was  lifted  from  his  shoulders. 
The  true  pilot  had  come  on  board. 

Instantly,  with  one  quick  nervous  motion,  Adora  re- 
moved herself  out  of  Sidney  Latimer's  arms,  but  she  was 
not  comfortable.  Slowly  and  surely  out  of  the  lifting 
mists  there  came  to  her  the  hot  consciousness  that  she  had 
been  kissed !  Yes,  in  sight  of  all  these  men ;  this  other 
consciousness  also — that  she  had  not  resented  it.  Indeed, 
how  could  she  ?  And  it  was  too  late  now,  at  any  rate ! 

She  put  out  her  hand  against  Sidney  Latimer's  breast 
as  if  to  push  him  from  her. 

"No,  no — you  must  not — you  do  not  understand,"  she 
stammered,  the  words  coming  pell-mell ;  "I  have  much  to 
say  to  you.  I  have  come  all  this  way  to  find  you — to  tell 
you—." 

The  young  man's  arms  went  about  her  again. 

"You  make  me  happy — "  he  said,  "ah,  if  only  I  had 
known !" 

"That  is  it — that  is  it !"  she  moaned — "you  do  not  know ! 
You  will  not  understand,  and — I  cannot  speak  to  you  be- 
fore all  these !" 


28o  STRONG  MAC 

"No,  of  course  you  cannot,"  cried  Sidney  Latimer,  with 
joyous  alacrity ;  "how  stupid  I  am.  Let  us  go  in.  I  under- 
stand that  there  is  a  convoy  belonging  to  Lord  Welling- 
ton's army  here.  General  Barnard  sent  me  out  to  seek  it — 
to  bring  it  in.  Little  did  I  think  when  I  started — ah,  how 
little — what  was  waiting  for  me — seeking  me — how 
precious  a  thing  I  should  bring  back !" 

And  he  gazed  tenderly  at  Adora,  with  such  a  face  of 
radiance  that  the  girl  was  for  the  moment  borne  away. 
She  let  him  press  her  hand,  saying  all  the  while  to  herself, 
"This  is  not  the  time  to  speak !  This  is  not  the  time !" 

So  guess  ye  how  fast  the  bruit  ran  about  the  companies, 
busily  unsaddling  their  horses,  or  gingerly  watering  them 
after  their  long  ride,  how  that  their  captain's  sweetheart 
had  come  all  the  way  to  find  him — out  of  Scotland,  they 
said.  And  they  were  all  glad,  for  the  young  friend  of 
General  Barnard  had  not  shared  the  fate  of  most  military 
favourites — he  was  liked  by  his  comrades  and  adored  by 
his  men.  He  was  rich,  too,  they  said,  and  a  girl's  hard 
heart  had  driven  him  to  the  wars.  Well,  most  of  them 
could  say  something  like  that,  but  this  at  least  was  new. 

With  the  breaking  of  the  day  and  the  arrival  of  the  de- 
tachment sent  to  bring  in  the  ammunition  convoy,  the  par- 
tidas  had  vanished  like  blown  smoke  among  the  moun- 
tains. The  sun  had  risen,  and  only  the  patient  mules,  the 
empty  venta,  and  the  dead  brigands  about  the  quadrangle 
of  the  farm  buildings  gave  evidence  of  the  struggle  of  the 
night. 

Don  Juan  Hernani  was  as  calmly  courteous  as  if  an  at- 
tack upon  his  alqueria  with  cannon,  and  the  arrival  of  a 
cavalry  relief  in  the  dawn,  had  been  every-day  events. 

He  had  already  given  directions  for  the  transport  of 
the  dead  men  to  their  homes.  They  were  laid  out  tem- 
porarily in  the  orchard,  and  as  Don  Juan  looked  at  each 
he  took  his  cigarette  out  of  his  mouth  and  crossed  him- 
self, muttering  the  while,  "God  be  merciful  to  him !  He 
belonged  to  an  excellent  family !" 

Or,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  without  any  religious  sign, 


THE   LATIMER  TEMPER  281 

he  said  aloud,  "The  devil  hath  gotten  a  sore  bargain  this 
day — for  no  ranker  raterillo  ever  chewed  slug  behind  a 
stone  wall  than  thou,  oh  unblessed  one !" 

Meantime  Adora  and  Sidney  Latimer  have  been  wait- 
ing. 

Down  in  the  court  was  Don  Juan,  going  from  group  to 
group,  deploring  that  he  had  so  little  to  offer  the  cavaliers 
of  my  Lord  Wellington's  army.  But  these  accursed 
French — Soult's  men!  His  friends,  the  English,  would 
understand.  The  thieves  had  hardly  left  as  much  as  would 
fodder  a  mouse  over  the  winter  in  all  his  barns.  Never- 
theless, the  camp  fires  were  lighted,  and  with  fresh-killed 
lambs  from  the  hills,  and  old  pressed  wine  from  some 
secret  vats,  untapped  by  the  French  troopers,  the  gentle- 
men cavaliers  and  their  companions  did  none  so  ill.  In- 
deed they  thought  themselves  in  clover  after  the  half 
rations  of  the  bleak  hilltops  around  Estella,  where,  as  the 
saying  went,  the  Portuguese  dug  for  pig  nuts  and  the 
Irish  ate  them,  all  the  while  cursing  their  benefactors  for 
dagos  because  they  could  not  find  them  potatoes. 

Adora  knew  that  a  difficult  task  awaited  her  in  the  great 
upper  room,  where  she  had  dined  in  solitary  state  the  night 
before,  with  the  Don  fluttering  to  and  fro  with  his  dainty 
cates  and  made  dishes,  while  his  Britannic  Majesty's  com- 
missariat sergeants  fumed  below  over  their  snail  patties 
and  sparrows'  legs.  The  good  captain  kept  careful  watch 
that  the  first  meeting  of  the  lovers  should  not  be  over- 
looked, nor  their  privacy  broken  in  upon. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  Adora's  eyes  dropped  before 
the  smiling  gladness  she  saw  in  those  of  Sidney  Latimer. 
Of  course  he  thought  what  any  man  would  think  in  the 
circumstances.  It  seemed  a  hard  thing  to  begin  to  unde- 
ceive him.  Yet  she  must.  He  had  kissed  her  once,  and 
that  must  be  done  with  for  ever.  Yet  what  if  he  were  to 
refuse  her  request — refuse  to  return  to  Scotland  with  her  ? 
She  might  indeed  return  thither,  and,  with  good  Captain 
Ebenezer  to  back  her,  swear  that  with  the  eyes  of  flesh, 
she  had  seen  Sidney  Latimer.  But  from  a  person  as  sus- 


282  STRONG  MAC 

pect  as  she,  that  might  advantage  Roy  McCulloch  but 
little.  For  Adora  knew  that  she  was  looked  upon  by  the 
legal  authorities  as  being  the  cause  of  the  quarrel. 

They  stood  awhile,  gazing  at  one  another  uncertainly. 
Then  it  was  Sidney  Latimer  who  spoke  first. 

"You  love  me?"  he  began,  in  a  low  questioning  voice, 
looking  at  her  with  sudden  shyness. 

Adora  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"You  mistake!"  she  said. 

"Then  why  are  you  here  ?"  he  asked,  the  colour  fading 
from  his  face;  "have  you  not  come  to  find  me?  I 
thought—" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  away  to  avoid  his  eyes,  I  came 
to  meet  you.  I  came  to  find  you,  but  not  for  the  reason 
you  think !  I  have  much  to  tell  you.  Sit  down  and  listen. 
I  ask  you  to  grant  me  a  hearing,  if  you  have  any  feeling 
for  the  old  time !" 

Sidney  Latimer  sat  down.  He  unhooked  his  sword  be- 
cause it  fretted  him,  and  threw  it  with  a  jangle  upon  the 
table.  Adora's  eyes  followed  it.  "Well,"  she  thought, 
"at  least  if  I  hurt  him,  he  will  have  something  else  to  turn 
to.  A  soldier  easily  consoles  himself,  so  they  say." 

She  reached  out  her  hand  towards  him.  He  did  not 
take  it. 

"I  must  know  first,"  he  said,  "to  whom  that  hand  be- 
longs !  Is  it  mine  ?" 

"It  is  my  own!"  said  Adora  quietly;  "it  belongs  to  no 
man !" 

"Then  you  are  not  married  ?" 

"No !" 

"Nor  yet  engaged  to  marry  any  man?" 

"No!" 

His  eyes  looked  the  further  question  his  lips  did  not 
utter.  The  girl  apprehended  and  answered  it. 

"I  am  here  to  ask  you  to  come  back  with  me — to  save  a 
man's  life — two  men's  lives !  They  are  accused  of  your 
murder!" 

"Of  my  murder?"    The  look  on  Sidney  Larimer's  face 


THE  LATIMER  TEMPER  283 

was  one  of  genuine  astonishment.  "How  can  that  be?  I 
have  written  repeatedly  to  my  mother.  All  that  she  had 
to  do  was  to  produce  my  letters  dated  from  the  camp  of 
General  Wellington!" 

The  marvel  was  now  as  swiftly  transferred  to  Adora's 
face. 

Had  Sidney  Latimer' s  mother  kept  back  the  letters? 
At  the  first  blush  it  seemed  like  it.  But  no — she  remem- 
bered the  countenance  of  the  woman  who  had  cursed  her 
on  the  road  through  the  Cleuch  of  Pluckamin.  That  was 
not  the  face  of  a  woman  who  knew  that  her  son  was  in 
safety. 

"Then,"  said  Adora,  "this  much  is  certain.  Your 
mother  has  not  received  those  letters,  for  two  men 
are  to  be  tried  at  Drumfern  spring  sessions  for  your 
murder." 

"And  who  are  these  men?"  asked  Sidney  Latimer,  look- 
ing steadily  upon  the  ground.  For  indeed  he  knew 
already. 

"Sharon  McCulloch  and  his  son  Roy!"  said  the  girl. 
And  she  supported  his  gaze  almost  defiantly,  knowing  that 
it  was  fixed  upon  her  with  meaning. 

After  this  ensued  a  long  time  of  silence  before  either  of 
them  spoke. 

Adora  knew  what  the  young  man  was  thinking.  He 
knew  that  Adora  knew.  But  he  gave  his  thought  words 
all  the  same. 

"And  you  have  come  to  Spain  for  this,"  he  said,  with 
slow,  strong  emphasis ;  "you  ask  me  to  leave  my  profes- 
sion, to  return  home  with  you,  only  to  save  Roy  McCul- 
loch'slife!" 

It  was  Adora  Gracie  who  this  time  looked  straight  at 
the  young  soldier. 

"That  is  why  I  have  come !"  she  said,  "for  that — and 
for  no  other  reason !" 

The  face  of  Sidney  Latimer  glowed  hotly.  Then  the 
fire  faded  till  it  grew  grey  and  pallid.  He  compressed  his 
lips  sternly.  The  Latimer  temper  was  showing. 


284  STRONG  MAC 

"And  suppose  I  refuse!"  He  shot  the  words  out 
brusquely. 

"You  will  not  refuse !"  said  Adora,  with  that  same  look 
as  before,  firm  and  straight  and  confident,  which  always 
found  its  way  to  his  heart;  "I  know  you  better!" 

He  jumped  up,  went  hastily  to  the  window,  then  two  or 
three  times  paced  the  whole  length  of  the  chamber. 

"Yes!"  he  cried,  "yes — that  is  just  it!  You  know 
that  I  will  not  refuse.  I  have  to  play  up  to  what  you  think 
of  me !  And  you  make  me  better  than  I  am — better  than 
I  want  to  be !  Adora  Gracie,  I  could  kill  the  man — the 
man  who  took  you  from  me — yes,  kill  him  with  my  own 
hands !  Yet  you  would  make  me — you  ask  me  to  go  home 
to  save  this  very  man  from  the  gallows  he  has  twice 
merited!  I  will  not  go!" 

He  flung  out  his  hands  with  a  sudden  fierce  gesture  of 
defiance. 

"I  tell  you  I  would  not  go  a  mile  to  save  Roy  McCul- 
loch,  that  you  might  marry  him !  He  can  swing  for  me — 
that  is  all  I  have  to  say !" 

Adora's  glance  never  shifted  or  weakened.  She  looked 
him  squarely  in  the  eye. 

"Yes,"  she  said  tranquilly,  "you  will  come  back — not 
because  I  am  going  to  marry  Roy  McCulloch,  or  because  I 
am  not  going  to  marry  Roy  McCulloch,  but  because  it  is 
your  duty  as  a  man  to  save  two  innocent  men  from  the 
gallows.  I  expect  it  of  you.  I  have  come  here  to  ask 
you !" 

Adora  smiled  at  him,  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
begun  to  talk  together. 

"Ah,"  cried  Sidney  Latimer,  bitterly  restive,  "you  think 
that  a  smile  pays  for  all !  I  will  not  go !" 

But  Adora  still  held  him  with  her  eyes.  The  right  that 
was  in  the  girl's  heart  mastered  the  selfishness  in  his.  A 
certain  fearless  elan  of  manner  made  it  difficult  for  a  man 
to  refuse  Adora  anything.  Sidney  Latimer  knew  that  he 
was  conquered  and  at  length  he  yielded. 

"Well,  I  will  go!"  he  said,  "and  if  I  ask  you  nothing  in 


THE  LATIMER  TEMPER  285 

return,  it  is  only  because  I  know  you  have  nothing  to  give 
me  that  I  would  care  to  accept !" 

Even  then  the  bright  directness  of  the  girl's  gaze  an- 
swered neither  yea  nor  nay. 

"When  I  have  anything  to  say  of  love  to  you  or  to  an- 
other man,  I  will  say  it,"  she  said.  "Now  I  only  ask  you 
to  do  justly  for  your  own  sake,  that  the  guilt  of  innocent 
blood  be  not  upon  your  hands." 

The  fierce  Latimer  blood  swung  loose  as  a  gate  on  crazy 
hinges. 

"I  tell  you  if  all  the  McCullochs  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
sheba  were  hanged  as  high  as  ever  Haman  was,  it  would 
not  lose  me  one  night's  sleep !"  he  cried.  "Nevertheless,  I 
will  go,  because  you  ask  me !  That  is  how  I  take  it !  So 
pray  understand  that  any  nobility  of  sentiment  is  entirely 
on  your  side!" 

Adora  laughed,  and  at  the  ripple  of  sound  something 
heavy  and  threatening  seemed  to  pass  away  from  their 
colloquy.  The  old  captain  bustled  in  as  at  a  signal. 

"Well  now,"  he  said,  "have  you  young  folk  no  arranged 
your  affairs  yet?" 

Whereupon,  with  one  breath,  they  reassured  him.  And 
he  shook  his  head  with  mock  severity  as  he  pointed  out 
Sidney  Latimer's  blushes. 

"It's  aye  the  woman  that  has  the  brazen  face  at  sic 
times  and  seasons !"  he  declared.  For  Captain  Ebenezer 
had  seen  the  kiss,  when  for  a  long  moment  Adora  lay  un- 
conscious in  the  young  officer's  arms.  And  after  that,  had 
an  angel  from  heaven  come  down  to  declare  that  these  two 
were  not  lovers,  the  sea-captain  would  have  told  him  that 
he  lied  in  his  throat.  Nay,  more  sacred  still,  he  would 
have  put  the  fact  of  their  plighted  troth  in  the  ship's  log, 
so  prone  are  people  to  see  what  they  expect  to  see. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

THE     PROPHETIC     UTTERANCES     OF      CAPTAIN      EBENEZER 
SINCLAIR. 

IT  was  some  time  before  even  the  good  will  of  General 
Barnard  and  the  necessities  of  the  case,  duly  reported  in 
the  highest  quarters,  smoothed  Sidney  Latimer's  way  out 
of  the  victorious  allied  army,  now  watching  at  the  thresh- 
hold  of  France.  But  it  was  done,  and  when  the  good  ship 
Fortune's  Queen  sailed  from  Bilbao,  she  carried  with 
her  Adora  Gracie,  and — the  captive  of  her  bow  and  spear, 
the  ex-commander  of  horse,  Sidney  Latimer. 

The  old  captain  was  more  pleased  with  himself  than 
ever.  The  pair  had  kept  their  secret.  And  the  unflagging 
zeal  with  which  the  ship  master  removed  Sweatin'  Jock 
White  and  Hillowton  of  the  Long  Arm  out  of  the  way  of 
possible  lovers'  conferences,  was  worthy  of  more  success 
than  the  manoeuvre  obtained. 

Indeed,  even  in  the  snug  cabin  of  the  Fortune's  Queen, 
with  the  lamp  swinging  aloft  and  throwing  strange  bars 
of  light  and  shadow  athwart  the  wall  and  roof  as  the  brig 
turned  and  swayed  in  the  Biscay  surges,  the  pair  found 
strangely  little  to  say  to  each  other.  Sidney  Latimer 
held  himself  bitterly  wronged  in  that,  without  hope  of  any 
reward  to  himself,  he  must  go  back  to  set  free  a  successful 
rival,  who,  if  he  were  indeed  innocent  of  one  murder,  was 
as  certainly  guilty  of  another.  Not  only  so,  but  he  must 
not  speak  of  what  he  knew  to  Adora.  Honour  forbade 
him.  He  could  not  teli  her  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  on 
the  evening  when  Roy  McCulloch  had  been  released  from 


SINCLAIR'S   PROPHETIC  UTTERANCES    287 

prison — or  how  his  rival  had  started  for  the  house  of  the 
murdered  man  only  an  hour  or  two  before  the  deed,  with 
threats  of  vengeance  on  his  lips. 

No,  his  mouth  was  closed  by  the  girl's  very  confidence 
in  him.  He  must  go  back  to  save  the  life  of  a  guilty  man ! 
And  for  what  ?  In  order  that  that  man  might  rob  him  of 
all  that  had  become  most  precious  to  him.  Sidney  Latimer 
brooded  upon  the  thought.  He  was  not  of  the  Adora 
stamp,  to  whom  the  doing  of  one  noble  action  for  its  own 
sake  would  afford  satisfaction  for  years.  His  selfishness 
was  of  the  more  blatant,  masculine  kind — though  perhaps 
not  more  really  selfish.  It  was  no  satisfaction,  so  Sidney 
told  himself,  to  go  back  all  the  way  to  Scotland  to  do  this 
thing.  Any  pleasure  he  got  out  of  it  was  of  the  dour  na- 
tional sort. 

"I  said  I  would  do  it,  and  I  will !" 

Nor  can  it  be  said  that  Sidney  Latimer  showed  to  better 
advantage  when  the  Fortune's  Queen  began  to  near  home. 
A  worse  man  would  have  managed  to  give  a  better  im- 
pression of  himself  to  a  woman  he  loved.  Yet  no  man 
could  have  treated  Adora  with  more  courtesy  and  reserve 
in  the  difficult  position  in  which  the  girl  had  placed  her- 
self. And  this  was  all  the  more  to  Latimer's  credit  because 
he  was  of  the  class  set  apart — in  the  land  of  Scots  a  Brah- 
man twice  born,  the  thread  upon  his  forehead,  lord  of 
lands  and  heritages,  patron  of  parochial  cures  of  souls. 
Adora  was  the  outcast  daughter  of  an  outcast  father.  Yet 
Sidney  Latimer  treated  her  as  though  she  had  been  the  de- 
scendant of  a  hundred  earls.  A  young  girl,  she  had  gone 
to  a  far  land  to  seek  him,  *o  ask  a  great  service  of  him — 
for  the  sake  of  another.  Yet,  after  the  first  outbreak  of 
temper,  he  acted  as  if  the  sacrifice  of  his  prospects  had 
been  the  merest  matter-of-course  courtesy. 

When  they  talked  at  all,  it  was  chiefly  concerning  how 
his  letters,  of  which  he  had  written  a  good  many,  had  not 
reached  his  mother.  Difficulties  of  service,  the  accident  of 
camp  and  transport,  were  urged.  But,  truth  to  tell,  neither 
of  them  believed  much  in  their  own  arguments,  though  the 


288  STRONG  MAC 

suspicions  which  underlay  them  were  wide  as  the  poles 
asunder. 

Like  a  man,  and  knowing  his  mother's  jealous  nature, 
Sidney  suspected  Mrs.  Latimer.  As  to  Adora — but  the 
time  was  not  yet  ripe  to  state  plainly  what  Adora  sus- 
pected. 

The  winds  in  the  bay  were  contrary,  as  their  manner  is, 
and  as  each  ship,  however  fast,  had  to  wait  for  the  slowest 
of  her  convoy,  it  was  the  time  of  long  passages.  Thus  it 
came  about  that  it  wanted  but  three  days  to  the  date  of  the 
opening  of  the  Drumfern  Sessions,  when  the  Fortune's 
Queen  made  her  way  up  to  the  quay  of  Port  Glasgow,  and 
set  the  captain  and  his  two  passengers  safe  ashore. 

Captain  Ebenezer's  eyes  were  still  tight  shut  as  to  the 
relations  which  existed  between  Adora  and  Sidney  Lati- 
mer. These  had  received  a  rude  shock  when  first  he  knew 
of  Sidney's  quality,  and  he  had  promptly  subjected  that 
young  man  to  the  straitest  of  cross-examinations  as  to  his 
position  and  intentions  with  regard  to  Adora — a  catechism 
which,  considering  the  circumstances,  was  submitted  to 
with  very  creditable  outward  good  humour,  but  with  much 
internal  restlessness. 

The  result,  however,  was  satisfactory  so  far  as  Captain 
Ebenezer  was  concerned. 

"The  laddie's  a  guid  laddie  an*  means  weel  by  the  lass," 
he  confided  to  Sweatin'  Jock  White,  who,  being  taciturn, 
was  his  confidant,  "maist- ways  he's  no  like  a  laird  ava' — no 
ava' !"  For  the  lairds  o'  Scotland  are  either  wild  asses  61 
the  desert,  roarin'  bulls  o'  Bashan,  wi'  a'  their  strength  in 
their  tails,  or  else  fushionless  as  frosted  turnips  in  a  thaw, 
pokin'  their  noses  here  after  auld  Druid  stanes  and  there 
after  Roman  camps !  But  this  yin's  amaist  as  sensible  as 
if  he  had  been  a'  his  life  a  decent  grocer,  or  even  'prenticed 
in  his  youth  to  the  sea-farin'  like  you  an'  me,  Sweatin' 

Jock!" 

*  *  *          *  *  *          * 

The  captain  was  pleased  with  his  success  as  a  diplo- 
matist. In  his  own  view,  he,  and  he  alone,  had  assured 


SINCLAIR'S   PROPHETIC   UTTERANCES    289 

Adora's  position  as  Lady  of  Lowran.  He  said  as  much 
to  Jock  White.  "You  wi'  your  heid  half  doon  the  com- 
panion-way listenin'  an'  me  for  a  face-to-face  witness — 
certes,  gin  we  canna  haud  him  til't,  my  name's  no  Ebene- 
zer  Sinclair !  Young  birkies  wi'  landed  estates  o'  their  ain 
are  no  to  lippen  to  wi'  a  guid-looking  lass !" 

"It's  my  opinion  that  this  particular  lass  will  no  be  the 
waur  o'  the  braw  landed  gentleman,  or  ony  ither  gentle- 
man," said  Sweatin'  Jock,  drily ;  "na,  she'll  send  them  aff 
wi'  a  flee  in  their  lug,  estate  or  no  estate !" 

And  it  is  quite  possible  that  Jock  had  his  own  reasons 
for  knowing. 

"Noo,"  said  the  captain,  when  at  last  the  three  stood  to- 
gether on  the  solid  stones  of  the  Port  Glasgow  quay, 
"understand,  I'm  gaun  to  see  ye  hame — baith  the  twa  o' 
ye!  It's  no  befittin'  for  a  young  pair  to  be  gallivantin' 
the  country,  as  if  they  were  on  the  road  to  Gretna.  Na, 
na,  when  ye  gang  into  Lowran  it  maun  be  wi'  the  min- 
ister's blessing  on  your  heads,  and  sax  horses  in  front  o' 
ye,  wi'  a  postillion  on  ilka  yin!  And,  faith,  auld  daft 
Ebenezer  Sinclair  wad  scatter  half  the  profits  o'  a  cruise 
to  the  Lowran  bairns  gin  he  could  see  the  sicht." 

So  they  posted  down  to  Drumfern,  with  the  captain  in 
jubilant  spirits.  He  had  organised  the  festival  games  at 
Lowran,  and  even  settled  where  the  bonfires  were  to  blaze, 
by  the  time  the  party  had  reached  Sanquhar.  And  as  they 
passed  Thornhill,  he  was  deep  in  the  architecture  of  the 
new  house  which  Sidney  Latimer  was  to  build  on  his 
estate. 

"It  maun  be  on  the  Fairy  Knowe,  there's  nae  doot  aboot 
that!"  he  said  with  immense  earnestness  of  manner, 
marking  the  site  and  ground-plan  on  the  back  of  a  receipt 
for  dock  dues  with  the  remains  of  a  stubby  pencil,  the  light 
twinkling  all  the  time  in  his  small  grey  eyes,  sunk 
deep  in  the  puckers  of  forty  years  among  the  salt  sea 
winds. 

"The  way  o't  is  this,"  he  cried ;  "the  Muckle  Hoose  o' 
Lowran  is  a'  weel  an'  weel  eneuch.  But  it  will  simply  no 


290  STRONG  MAC 

do  for  twa  young  folk !  'Deed,  and  it's  me  that  should  ken, 
for  mony's  the  time  I  hae  carried  the  letters  to  your  ain 
grandfaither,  Master  Latimer — and  a  deevil  o'  a  man  he 
was,  asking  your  grace  for  lettin'  oot  the  word  aboot  yin 
that's  blood-kin  to  ye.  But  it  was  for  that  verra  reason  it 
was  laid  on  me  to  speer  at  ye  sae  carefully — ye  ken  what 
you  an'  me  had  the  bit  palaver  aboot !  But  at  ony  rate  on 
the  Fairy  Knowe  the  new  hoose  o'  Lowran  is  to  stand. 
Dod,  sir,  but  I'm  pleased  ye  agree  wi'  me.  The  auld  yin 
did  weel  eneuch  for  a  bachelor  man  wi'  twa  auld  wives 
to  mix  his  grog  and  see  that  he  gaed  to  his  bed  in  time  o' 
nicht.  But  to  be  plain  wi'  ye,  the  auld  hoose  is  no  in  the 
proper  situation  for  a  man  wi'  a  young  family !  An'  your 
honour  kens  it  will  tak'  some  while  for  them  to  grow  up — 
wi'  a  pond  afore  the  door  for  the  laddies  to  be  for  ever 
faa'in'  into  an'  frichtin'  their  mither  oot  o'  her  reason, 
thinkin'  them  droonin'.  Whilk  is,  of  coorse,  a  moral  im- 
possibeelity.  For  to  my  kennin',  Lowran  Big  Hoose  pond 
is  no  mair  than  three  feet  deep,  if  that.  But  a'  the  same, 
same  muckle  water  afore  the  door  is  nane  healthy.  For 
grown  folk  it  is  little  maitter,  but  for  bairns,  be  they  never 
sae  sturdy  on  their  legs — ." 

At  this  point,  Sidney  Latimer,  after  vehement  attempts 
to  change  the  current  of  the  captain's  meditations,  took  the 
extreme  measure  of  pleading  a  sudden  faintness  and  ask- 
ing leave  to  go  outside  in  order  to  sit  with  the  driver. 

Whereupon  Adora,  thus  basely  deserted,  was  willy-nilly 
instructed  upon  the  conduct  of  married  life  and  the  up- 
bringing of  a  young  family,  and  listened  to  wisdom  from 
lips  of  a  bachelor  sailor-man  who  had  left  home  at  four- 
teen, and  never  seen  a  boy  since,  except  when  springing 
responsive  to  a  rope's  end ! 

This  year  the  spring  had  come  early  over  all  the  Scot- 
tish southland.  The  leaves  on  the  hedgerows,  the  buds 
on  the  ash-trees,  were  ushering  themselves  calmly  and 
temperately  into  a  snell,  dry,  airy  world  of  abundant  but 
not  intemperate  sunshine.  They  were,  indeed,  in  no  par- 
ticular haste  to  be  born.  On  the  whole,  they  were  more 


SINCLAIR'S   PROPHETIC   UTTERANCES    291 

comfortable  where  they  were,  with  their  overcoats  lapped 
about  their  ears,  but  business  was  business,  and  must  be 
attended  to  by  all  things  Scottish. 

So  it  was  the  first  gay  push  of  this  lowland  spring — the 
yellow  time  which  brings  a  certain  untranslatable  glad- 
ness into  young  hearts  was  upon  the  land — whin  spikes 
surging  along  the  bank  sides  and  the  lemon  yellow  of  the 
broom  laughing  up  from  every  cleuch  like  the  provocation 
of  a  spoilt  beauty. 

There  are  perhaps  times  more  beautiful  in  Scotland — 
the  rich  summer  abundance  of  green  woods  and  full-fed 
waters,  the  autumn  ling  spreading  league  on  purple 
league,  but  nothing  touches  the  heart  of  the  country-bred 
boy  like  the  first  yellow  of  the  primrose  and  the  daffodil, 
of  the  prickly  gorse  and  the  tall  lady  broom,  and,  above 
all,  like  that  first  thrilling  rush  barefoot  over  the  grass  of 
the  meadow  lands.  Something  tricksome  and  flaunting 
doubtless  there  is  about  this  garish  gold,  but  nevertheless 
the  contrast  with  the  rich  dark  breadths  of  ploughland 
and  the  chill  unsmiling  grey  of  the  mountain  sides  makes 
the  Yellow  Time  of  broom-flourish  and  whin-blossom  the 
gladdest  in  all  the  year.  After  passing  through  miles  of 
this  brave  canary-coloured  wood,  it  was  at  Thornhill  that 
the  first  whisper  of  what  was  before  them  reached  the  trio 
in  the  post-chaise.  There  was  a  halt  of  a  few  minutes  at 
the  change  house  near  to  Morton  Kirk,  and  Sidney  Lati- 
mer,  strolling  somewhat  apart,  heard  two  men  call  to  each 
other  across  the  road,  both  of  them  weary  with  the  do- 
nothing  of  a  village  afternoon. 

"They'll  hae  gotten  their  sentence  by  noo,  eh,  Robin?" 
said  one. 

To  which  in  due  course  Robin  replied,  equally  glad  to 
have  a  topic  upon  which  something  new  might  be  said, 
"Aye,  Gib,  ye're  speakin' !  They'll  ken  the  day  an'  hour 
o'  their  latter  end  by  this  time,  and  that's  mair  nor  ony  o' 
us  can  tell !" 

In  an  instant  Sidney  Latimer  was  upon  them. 

"Of  what  do  you  speak,  men?"  he  cried,  "not  of  the 


292  STRONG  MAC 

Drumfern  Assizes,  surely?  They  do  not  open  till 
Monday !" 

"Maybes  no,"  answered  the  man  who  had  been  called 
Robin,  "since  your  Honour  seems  to  ken  sae  weel  aboot 
them.  But  ony  way,  the  judges'  procession  was  yester- 
day morning,  for  my  ain  e'en  saw  it.  And  the  twa  Gallo- 
way men  were  to  be  tried  for  their  lives  this  verra  day — 
McQuilliams  or  McCullochs  or  McCardles — some  o'  thae 
auld  cut-throat,  covenanting  west-country  names !" 

The  young  laird  ran  back  quickly  to  the  inn,  and  told 
Adora  what  he  had  heard. 

"I  am  going  to  get  a  horse,"  he  said,  "and  ride  to  Drum- 
fern  as  hard  as  I  can !" 

"I  will  come  with  you !"  she  said,  taking  his  arm. 

"No,"  said  Sidney  Latimer.  "I  have  a  work  to  do — I 
will  do  it  alone !" 

She  looked  long  at  him,  but  this  time  his  eye  did  not 
falter  or  shrink.  It  was  as  steady  as  her  own. 

"You  may  trust  me !"  he  said. 

And  five  minutes  afterwards  Sidney  Latimer  was  gal- 
loping down  the  valley  of  the  Nith  as  fast  as  whip-leather 
and  spur-prick  could  send  his  hired  hack  towards  the 
court  where  Sharon  and  Roy  McCulloch  were  being  tried 
for  his  own  murder. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE. 

WITH  splendour  of  Town  Council  robes  and  militia 
drummings,  with  banners  that  waved  in  the  morning  and 
torches  that  flared  at  night,  the  sessions  of  the  Southern 
Circuit  Court  of  criminal  jurisdiction  had  been  opened  in 
Drumfern. 

There  were  two  judges,  Lord  Barmack  and  Lord  Pit- 
fairly.  The  first  of  these  was  of  the  old  type  of  the 
previous  century,  haranguing  every  jury  with  threats, 
even  to  oaths  and  cursings,  if  in  aught  it  failed  to  do  his 
will. 

On  the  occasion  of  this  Drumfern  riding  the  lords  of 
assize  had  come  from  Jedburgh,  each  on  his  own  proper 
beast.  It  was  not  yet  the  day  of  carriages  and  four.  In 
addition,  each  judge  had  with  him  his  own  unfortunate 
"wig-of-all-work" — a  young  advocate  who  was  assured 
by  his  friends  that  the  path  of  glory  consisted  in  riding 
circuit  as  the  judge's  companion  of  voyage. 

But  to  some,  at  least,  the  path  to  glory  was  certainly 
through  suffering.  For  my  Lord  Barmack,  whose  temper 
was  perennially  bad,  vented  any  that  accumulated  on 
young  Cosmo  Taylor,  whose  only  crime  was  that  he 
wrote  for  the  reviews,  while  Lord  Pitfairly,  a  man  of 
militant  piety,  persisted  in  discussing  with  his  attache,  one 
Kenneth  Maitland,  the  immortality  of  the  soul — at  a  time 
when  Mr.  Maitland  was  thinking  of  the  deuced  pretty 
girl  he  had  danced  with  four  times  at  the  Jedburgh  circuit 
ball  the  night  before. 

On  the  way  from  Jedburgh  to  Drumfern  the  two 
judges,  wearied  of  the  "Yes"  and  "No"  of  their  subordi- 
nates, and  momentarily  soothed  by  dialectic  victories  over 


294  STRONG  MAC 

them,  had,  as  a  last  resort,  sought  each  other's  society  as 
they  jogged  along. 

"I  am  sacredly  glad  to  be  quit  of  that  sordid  hole,"  said 
Barmack,  with  an  expletive  which  caused  his  companion 
to  shiver.  "I  can  always  tell  a  Royal  Borough  by  the 
stench — yes,  sir,  by  the  stench!  I  wish  to  heaven  some- 
thing would  come  between  me  and  the  wind  of  Jedburgh's 
regality!  Ouff!" 

"Ah,  my  Lord,"  said  Pitfairly,  mildly,  "for  me  I  have 
not  found  it  so.  I  have  always  been  well  treated  in  Jed- 
burgh.  There  is  a  soft  sweetness,  even  a  sanctity  about 
the  place—" 

"Sanctity  be  hanged,  Pitfairly,"  shouted  Barmack;  "it's 
the  stink,  man — I  tell  you  it's  nothing  but  the  want  of 
drains !" 

"The  minister  of  the  parish  who  preached  to  us  on  Sab- 
bath morning  appeared  to  be  a  most  meritorious  person," 
piped  Pitfairly,  eager  to  change  the  subject ;  "I  have  just 
been  remarking  as  much  to  my  young  friend,  Kenneth 
Maitland." 

"Oh,  damnable !  Simply  boss-timber,  yon  head  o'  his !" 
cried  my  Lord,  judicially;  "there's  eneuch  planking  and 
cuddy's  skin  about  the  man's  skull  to  mak'  a  new  drum 
for  the  Crailing  Guard !  If  it  hadna  been  that  I  fell 
asleep  within  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  by  my  faith, 
Pitfairly,  I  declare  I  wad  hae  thrown  my  wig  and  cocked 
hat  at  his  pate!  But  speakin'  o'  cocked  hats,  Pitfairly, 
I'm  thinking  from  what  I  hear  that  ye'll  need  to  smuggle 
yours  into  the  court  at  Drumfern.  And  mind  ye,  Pit- 
fairly,  it'll  be  your  ain.  For  the  last  time  ye  sentenced  a 
man  to  the  mercy  o'  the  Almichty  and  the  hangman,  ye 
blubbered  into  the  crown  o'  mine  so  that  it  was  never  fit 
to  put  on  my  head  again !" 

"I  had  not  heard  of  the  case  particularly!"  said  Pit- 
fairly,  still  mildly;  "what  is  it?" 

"No,  ye  wadna,  tied  up  wi'  sic  a  sumph  as  Kenneth 
Maitland,  that  has  nocht  in  the  noddle  o'  him  but  haverel 
lasses  and  houses-o'-call.  It  may  do  for  you,  Pitfairly,  to 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE    295 

be  acquaint  wi'  the  pattern  o'  every  prick-me-denty  petti- 
coat between  Carlisle  and  the  Grassmarket,  but  I'm  tellin' 
you  it's  no  beseeming  in  a  decent  married  man  like  me." 

"I  know  not  to  what  you  are  pleased  to  refer,"  said  Pit- 
fairly  stiffly ;  "I  presume  you  jest.  That  is  not  a  practice 
in  which  I  strive  to  compete  with  some  of  my  colleagues. 
But  I  have  heard  nothing  of  this  capital  indictment  of 
which  you  speak.  It  is,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  Galloway 
case!" 

"A  Galloway  case,  hear  to  him !"  cried  Barmack,  bring- 
ing down  his  whip-lash  on  his  friend's  horse  with  a  slap 
which  caused  it  to  curvet,  to  the  rider's  exceeding  dis- 
comfiture, "have  ye  never  heard — hath  it  not  been  told  you 
even  at  the  kirk  door — hath  it  not  been  revealed  to  you  in 
a  vision  of  the  night,  that  a  couple  of  poaching  bonnet 
lairds — aye,  bonnet  lairds,  no  less,  stand  accused  of  two 
murders  with  malice  aforethought,  and  that  it  is  your  ex- 
cellent good  fortune  first  to  try  and  then  to  sentence  them  ? 
Lord,  I  wish  it  had  been  me!  But  I  have  to  take  that 
abominable  appeal  about  a  man  that  buried  a  horse  in  an- 
other man's  yaird,  and  the  gardener  took  the  chicken-pox 
or  maybe  the  cholera!  Maybe  you  will  be  willing  to 
change  with  me !  It  were  a  truly  Christian  act !" 

"Are  you  sure  of  this  ?"  said  Pitfairly,  obviously  begin- 
ning to  roll  his  summing  up  like  a  sweet  morsel  under  his 
tongue. 

"Aye,  ower  doom's  sure!"  groaned  Barmack,  "I  wad 
hae  gi'en  a  guinea  to  gar  thae  poachin'  deils  shake  in 
their  shoon !  But  you,  Pitfairly,  will  talk  to  them  as  if  ye 
had  a  detachment  o'  angels  at  the  door  to  tak'  them  richt 
up  to  heeven !  Almichty,  but  it's  me  that  wad  be  croose, 
if  I  were  as  sure  o'  gettin'  quit  o'  the  wee  deils  wi'  the 
reed-hot  pincers,  and  sittin'  snug  amang  the  harps,  as  thae 
twa  will  be  afore  ye  hae  dune  wi'  them.  Oh,  I  ken  your 
style,  Pitfairly — 'It's  never  ower  late  for  repentance'  says 
you ;  fyow  very  crimes,  as  you  look  back  on  them,  will 
seem  sae  mony  steppin'  stanes  to  Abraham's  bosom — !' ' 

"My  Lord,  it  pleases  you  to  be  irreverent!"  said  Pit- 


296  STRONG  MAC 

fairly ;  "I  have  need  of  solitude,  if  it  be  that  my  duty  calls 
me  to  be  the  means  of  ushering  any  two  of  my  poor  sinful 
fellow-creatures  into  eternity!  You  will  pardon  me  if  I 
ride  on  a  little  way  by  myself !" 

"Aye,  do  that !"  growled  Barmack  as  he  looked  at  the 
bowed  shoulders  and  nodding  mandarin  head  of  his  cir- 
cuit companion,  "and  faith,  if  it  werena  that  a  hempen 
cord's  nae  friendly  comforter  to  hae  pitten  about  your 
craig  on  a  frosty  mornin' — by  my  sang,  I  wad  e'en  be 
temptit  to  commit — weel,  it  couldna  be  'homicide' — ha,  ha, 
no — but  auld-wifie-ci de !  Lord,  Lord,  I  maun  tell  that  to 
yon  eediot  Cosmo  Taylor.  Not  that  he'll  understand  the 
length  an'  breadth  o'  it  like  Hermand,  but  I  am  bound  to 

tell  it  to  somebody!" 

*  *  *          *  #  *          * 

The  Court  of  Assize  of  the  Southern  Circuit  was  in  full 
session — in  the  old  court-house  of  Drumfern,  a  reeky  and 
"sleechy"  place,  looking  as  if  there  had  been  rubbed  off  on 
the  very  walls  and  ceilings  the  mean  contemptible  rascality 
of  a  hundred  gaol  deliveries.  On  the  bench  sat  my  Lord 
Pitfairly,  a  decanter  of  wine  and  a  platter  of  biscuits  be- 
fore him,  to  enhance  with  a  note  of  deeper  colour  the  scar- 
let-and- white  of  his  judicial  robes. 

The  Advocate  Depute  Melville  Dundas,  a  cold,  limited, 
just  man,  stated  the  case  for  the  prosecution.  The  two 
McCullochs  were  at  the  bar.  They  looked  pale  and  quiet 
in  the  cobweb  filtered  light  of  the  narrow  court-house 
windows.  No  man  could  say  which  was  the  taller  as  they 
stood  close  together.  For  though  Sharon  was  more  grim 
and  gaunt  than  usual,  facing  the  bench  with  a  kind  of 
stern  and  silent  determination,  Roy  seemed  to  have  grown 
in  prison,  and  his  face,  always  firm  and  manly,  had  taken 
on  a  new  fineness  of  line  and  quiet  dignity  of  expression. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  there  seemed  to  be  less  and 
less  doubt  as  to  the  result  of  the  trial.  Indeed,  the  case  for 
the  Crown  was  so  strong,  that  the  young  advocate  engaged 
for  the  defence  seemed  cowed,  and  hardly  made  more  than 
a  formal  defence.  James  McCulloch  had  obtained  such 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE    297 

legal  assistance  as  the  firm  he  was  engaged  with  could 
supply.  But  the  evidence  as  to  the  making  away  with 
Sidney  Latimer  was  so  crushing,  that  as  the  judge  said 
privately  to  his  companion  of  voyage,  Kenneth  Maitland, 
it  was  strong  enough  to  hang  every  one  connected  with 
the  case,  and  his  wonder  was  that  the  fiscal  had  allowed 
the  girl  Gracie,  who  seemed  to  be  the  cause  of  all  this 
unchristian  feeling  among  neighbours,  to  escape  furth  of 
the  country.  He  himself  would  speak  to  the  Lord  Ad- 
vocate about  it  immediately  upon  his  return  to  Edinburgh. 

"Yes,  that  would  doubtless  have  made  it  more  interest- 
ing," said  the  young  man,  without  taking  thought ;  "if  all 
tales  be  true  she  was  a  lass  worth  fighting  about !" 

"No  daughter  of  Eve  is  worth  fighting  for!"  said  the 
judge,  sententiously.  "Not  if  the  woman  were  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  sun,  and  above  the  order  of  the  stars !  Only 
last  Sabbath,  did  not  the  excellent  Dr.  Mullhead  in  his 
circuit  sermon  say  of  that  light-headed  queen  we  had  be- 
fore us  at  Jedburgh,  that  her  favour  was  deceitful  and  her 
beauty  vain?" 

To  this  Mr.  Kenneth  Maitland  wisely  answered  noth- 
ing, but  as  his  patron  turned  away  for  a  moment  (it  was 
during  the  stated  pause  for  refreshments)  he  smacked 
his  lips  and  winked  at  the  nearest  young  advocate,  who 

made  an  answering  gesture  of  commiseration. 

*  *  *          *  *  *          * 

The  speech  of  the  advocate  depute  was  over.  It  had 
been  not  only  severe  but  overwhelming.  The  clear  mo- 
tive, jealousy — the  fact  of  the  presence  of  the  unfortunate 
Laird  of  Lowran  at  the  house  of  the  accused  had  been 
made  plain  beyond  dispute.  What  drew  him  there  was 
without  doubt  to  see  the  girl  Gracie,  who  had  been  installed 
for  some  time,  but  had  now  fled  the  country.  Young 
men  would  be  young  men  in  spite  of  the  sagest  advice,  and 
it  could  be  proved  that  the  deceased  had  often  been  warned 
of  his  danger  by  the  aged  lady  whom  they  all  honoured, 
and  who  had  given  her  evidence  there  that  day  with  such 
distinguished  dignity  and  reticence. 


298  STRONG  MAC 

Secondly,  was  it  not  on  the  verge  of  the  property  of  the 
accused  that  the  blood-stained  coat  had  been  found,  the 
very  coat  in  which  Mr.  Sidney  Latimer  had  left  his  own 
house  of  Lowran  a  few  hours  before  ?  The  horse,  too,  had 
been  recovered,  wounded  by  a  foul  blow  from  some  sharp 
weapon,  evidently  given  from  beneath,  thus  showing  inten- 
tion of  concealment.  The  footsteps  of  the  unfortunate 
victim  had  been  traced  right  up  to  the  door  of  the  house 
of  the  panels.  There  were  evident  traces  of  a  struggle  in 
the  vicinity.  Though  the  body  of  the  young  gentleman 
whose  end  had  been  so  tragic  had  not  been  discovered,  the 
jury  must  decide  whether  that  hiatus  in  the  evidence  was 
enough  to  shield  the  criminals  from  the  penalty  of  their 
crimes.  As  to  the  other  accusation,  charged  chiefly, 
though  not  exclusively,  against  the  younger  prisoner  at  the 
bar,  there  was  every  reason  to  hold  that  in  that  case 
also  his  guilt  was  patent.  The  same  motive  was  present 
in  it  as  in  the  other — jealousy. 

It  could  be  shown  that  there  was  also  revenge.  For  let 
the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  remember  (and  they  were  most 
of  them  closely  connected  with  the  sheep-farming  in- 
terest) that  the  accused  Roy  McCulloch  had  spent  some 
weeks  in  gaol  upon  the  accusation  that  he  had  stolen  a 
considerable  number  of  sheep,  the  fleeces  of  which  were 
found  in  a  barn  at  House  of  Muir !  Now  these  animals 
were  the  property  of  the  deceased  Mr.  Alexander  Ewan. 
The  evidence,  however,  had  not  been  strong  enough  to 
ensure  condemnation.  The  Crown  officials  at  a  distance 
had  exercised,  rightly  or  wrongly — wrongly,  as  it  now  ap- 
peared, an  undue  clemency  to  the  man  before  them.  And 
in  all  human  probability  the  first  use  which  Roy  McCul- 
loch made  of  his  liberation  was  to  proceed  to  the  farm  of 
Boreland  and  there  provoke  the  quarrel  that  ended  in  the 
dastard  blow  which  had  proved  fatal  to  that  singularly 
eminent  agriculturalist,  whose  scientific  treatment  of  all 
the  problems  connected  with  the  breeding  of  domestic 
animals,  especially  horses,  had  brought  so  great  honour 
upon  the  parish  and  district.  But  though  the  name  of  Mr. 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE    299 

Alexander  Ewan  was  known  far  and  wide,  the  proofs  of 
the  connection  of  the  accused  with  his  death  were  less 
firmly  established,  and  less  overwhelming  than  those 
which  had  been  proved  in  their  hearing  with  regard  to  the 
tragic  disappearance  of  Mr.  Sidney  Latimer.  For  these 
reasons  his  Majesty's  advocate  depute  was  content,  find- 
ing himself  in  the  presence  of  so  intelligent  and  able  a 
jury,  perfectly  conversant  with  the  gravest  affairs  and 
capable  of  judging  upon  them,  to  leave  them  to  say 
whether  this  state  of  things  was  to  continue.  Were  they 
to  have  murderers — yes — he  would  use  the  word — mur- 
derers abroad  among  them,  dwelling  upon  their  own 
borders,  not  only  defying  the  law  of  the  land,  but  a  con- 
tinued menace  to  the  lives  of  all  honest  and  well-doing 
people?  Manifestly  the  unfortunate  gentleman  to  whom 
he  had  so  often  referred  had  met  his  death  upon  the  lands 
of  the  McCullochs — nay,  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  their 
house.  He  would  leave  it  with  confidence  to  the  jury  to 
say  whether  these  two  men,  the  sole  persons  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood capable  of  such  a  crime,  the  only  ones  with  any 
motive,  the  only  ones  inculpated  by  evidence,  were  the 
guilty  persons  or  not.  So  strong  did  he  consider  his  posi- 
tion upon  the  matter,  concluded  Mr.  Melville  Dundas, 
that  he  had  purposely  left  the  other  charge,  the  murder  of 
Mr.  Alexander  Ewan,  somewhat  in  the  background,  feel- 
ing that  he  was  able  to  depend  upon  the  evidence  that  the 
sagacity  of  the  Crown  officials  had  been  able  to  put  before 
the  jury  in  order  to  secure  the  conviction  which,  he  felt 
strongly,  was  necessary  to  the  security  of  his  Majesty's 
lieges  throughout  all  these  well-doing  and  most  respec- 
table southern  counties  of  Scotland ! 

This,  with  infinite  reduplications  and  returnings  upon 
the  same  arguments,  was,  in  brief,  the  speech  of  his 
Majesty's  advocate  depute. 

Now,  Messrs.  Gleg  and  Gleg,  writers  in  Drumfern 
(whose  managing  clerk  was  a  brother  of  one  panel  and  the 
son  of  the  other),  did  a  large,  but  not  particularly  distin- 
guished business.  They  were  reputed  (perhaps  libel- 


300  STRONG  MAC 

lously)  to  take  by  preference  the  cases  which  lay  on  the 
purlieus  of  the  law,  rather  than  wait  for  the  more  serious 
and  distinguished  landed-estate  business,  upon  which  most 
country  lawyers'  offices  starve  throughout  the  year.  In 
the  case  of  the  McCullochs,  with  the  eye  to  the  main 
chance  which  distinguished  them  as  a  firm,  they  had  em- 
ployed a  certain  young  advocate,  who  had  just  passed  his 
examinations  and  been  received  at  the  Scottish  Bar  (a 
nephew  of  the  senior  partner's),  Mr.  Apollos  Dunn.  This 
gentleman  was  widely  known  to  the  circuit  as  ''Polly" — 
for  the  reason  that  it  was  believed  that  no  original  thought 
had  ever  passed  that  mouth  of  gold,  which  nevertheless 
could  imitate  with  all  a  parrot's  irritating  exactitude  the 
peculiarities  of  every  man  on  the  circuit,  from  Pitfairly's 
pious  platitudes  and  Barmack's  humor-spiced  brutalities, 
to  the  halting  and  hiatused  oratory  of  Mr.  Kenneth 
Maitland,  who,  to  do  him  justice,  practised  much 
more  frequently  at  Fencible  dinners  than  "before  the 
Fifteen." 

Mr.  Apollos  Dunn,  very  undesirous  of  making  the 
plunge,  was  hitching  his  gown  and  arranging  his  papers. 
The  jury  was  already  shaking  sapient  heads  and  confer- 
ring together.  The  judge  took  yet  another  sip  from  his 
decanter  in  an  absent-minded  sort  of  way,  nibbled  a  bit  of 
biscuit,  and  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a  satisfied  sigh. 
There  was  just  time  to  make  notes  for  his  summing  up. 
He  even  began,  as  it  were  casually,  to  think  over  the 
moving  words  in  which  he  would  address  the  condemned. 
There  was  now  so  little  doubt  in  his  mind  about  the  issue, 
that  he  felt  under  the  desk  to  make  sure  that  the  cocked 
hat  (the  "black  cap"  which  is  always  noted  with  a  kind  of 
awe  as  being  "assumed"  by  the  judges  on  such  occasions) 
lay  snugly  on  the  shelf  where  he  had  placed  it  alongside 
his  sacred  judicial  snuffbox.  Just  as  little  doubt  as  to  tne 
fate  of  the  McCullochs  existed  in  any  mind  throughout  the 
court.  Only  the  junior  bar  nudged  each  other  and  made 
bets  as  to  who  "Polly"  would  ape  on  this  occasion. 

Mr.  Apollos  Dunn  cleared  his  throat  for  the  twentieth 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE    301 

time.  His  papers  were  at  last  to  his  mind,  and  he  was 
sorry  for  it.  His  handkerchief  was  ready.  He  had  re- 
solved to  make  a  thrilling  appeal  to  the  jury  on  the  score 
of  the  age  of  his  senior  client  and  the  youth  of  his  junior. 
The  style  was  to  be  that  of  the  judge  himself  in  child- 
murder  cases,  when  Lord  Pitfairly  was  noted  for  the  ex- 
hibition of  true  pathos  (but  always  hanged). 

"My  Lord,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  Polly, 
getting  the  range  of  the  court,  "it  is  with  the  utmost 
humility  and  with  the  sense  of  my  awful  responsibility  that 
I  rise  to  make  an  appeal  to  you  on  behalf  of  the  unfortu- 
nate men  before  you.  While  admitting  the  serious  char- 
acter of  a  portion  of  the  evidence  brought  before  you — I 
propose  to  show  that  nothing  but  a  collocation  of  circum- 
stantial evidence  connects  either  of  them  with  the  much- 
to-be-lamented  death  of  the  late  Mr.  Sidney  Latimer  of 
Lowran — " 

"Sidney  Latimer  is  not  \dead!"  cried  a  clear  resonant 
voice  from  the  back  of  the  court. 

"Silence  there !"  called  out  the  usher,  while  the  sheriff's 
men  hustled  the  audience  to  this  side  and  that  on  their  way 
to  the  zone  of  disturbance.  All  heads  were  turned  in  that 
direction.  Even  Lord  Pitfairly  half  rose  from  his  chair. 
His  principles  of  charity  did  not  allow  of  an  interruption 
in  his  court,  even  for  the  purpose  of  saving  two  men's 
lives.  Besides  he  had  just  thought  of  something  particu- 
larly moving  for  his  "black  cap"  address.  If  the  McCul- 
lochs  were  acquitted,  he  might  forget  it  before  he  had  a 
chance  of  using  it. 

A  young  man  of  military  bearing  and  dress  was  seen 
forcing  his  way  through  the  crowd.  The  peace  officers 
met  him  half  way,  but  the  strength  of  his  purpose,  and 
perhaps  also  the  uniform  which  he  wore,  restrained  them 
from  actually  laying  hands  upon  him. 

By  this  time  most  of  the  Bar  were  on  their  feet.  Polly 
Dunn  and  his  speech  were  lost  in  the  throng.  He  stood 
open-mouthed,  his  head  thrown  forward,  his  gown  rucked 
up  about  his  neck  and  his  whole  appearance  ridiculously 


302  STRONG  MAC 

suggesting  the  bird  to  which  the  more  frivolous  of  his  con- 
temporaries compared  him. 

"Who  are  you,  sir  ?"  cried  Lord  Pitf airly,  when  he  had  a 
little  regained  his  composure.  Then  he  took  another  sip 
of  his  decanter,  as  mechanically  as  if  he  had  been  replen- 
ishing a  fire  with  wood — in  fact,  as  if  his  hand  had  found 
the  wine-glass  in  the  way,  and  Lad  not  known  what  else 
to  do  with  it  but  carry  it  to  the  judicial  mouth. 

"I  am  Sidney  Latimer!"  said  the  young  man,  simply. 

"Sidney  Latimer — "  repeated  the  judge,  this  time  like 
a  parrot  himself,  "impossible!  We  have  just  heard  it 
proved  to  demonstration  that  Sidney  Latimer  was  mur- 
dered and  by  the  prisoners  before  us !  What  have  you  to 
advance  as  an  excuse  for  this  scandalous  and  unseemly  as- 
sertion?" 

The  young  man,  who  had  by  this  time  arrived  at  the 
little  flight  of  steps,  which  in  the  old  court-house  of 
Drumfern  conducted  to  the  witness  box,  now  turned  tow- 
ards the  Bar. 

"You  know  me,.  Kenneth?"  he  said  to  the  judge's 
travelling  companion,  "and  you,  Melville,  and  you,  and 
you!  Besides,  every  Lowran  person  here  present  knows 
me!" 

But  a  better  witness  than  any  of  these  he  named  had 
arisen  from  the  seats  set  apart  for  the  witnesses.  Gaunt, 
worn,  haggard,  the  Lady  of  Lowran  stood  up,  hanging  at 
first  for  a  moment  uncertain,  her  hands  tremulous,  her 
body  swaying.  Suddenly  with  a  piercing  cry  of  "My  son ! 
my  son !"  she  threw  herself  into  Sidney  Latimer's  arms. 

And  behind  the  young  man's  mother  was  seen  another 
woman,  aged  like  the  other  and  also  trembling. 

"Mine  too,"  she  muttered,  setting  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  almost  jealously.  Then  with  a  glance  at  the 
court,  "It's  no  fittin'  here!"  she  murmured.  And  so  sat 
down,  content  to  caress  with  her  eyes  the  dead-come-to- 
life-again,  the  man  whom  she  had  -nursed  as  a  boy  and  for 
whom  her  arms  still  yearned. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 
"BY  A  MAJORITY!" 

"ORDER!  Order!"  cried  the  judge,  "all  this  is  most  un- 
seemly. If  your  statement  be  exact,  sir,  be  true,  why  have 
you  not  appeared  in  this  court  sooner?" 

"My  Lord,"  answered  Sidney  Latimer,  "I  have  come  di- 
rectly from  Spain  on  board  the  ship  Fortune's  Queen, 
presently  at  Port  Glasgow.  When  the  news  reached  me  I 
was  serving  with  his  Majesty's  troops  in  the  Peninsula. 
I  posted  from  Port  Glasgow  to  Thornhill,  believing  that 
the  assizes  were  not  to  be  opened  till  Monday.  From  that 
point,  having  learned  my  mistake,  I  have  ridden  the  horse 
which  is  at  this  moment  at  the  door  of  the  court !" 

The  advocate  depute,  zealous  in  his  office,  raised  him- 
self with  a  jerk.  "I  will  recall  to  your  Lordship,"  he  said, 
"that  the  witnesses  have  all  been  heard.  Saving  the 
speech  for  the  defence,  the  case  is  closed.  I  submit  that 
this  gentleman  has  no  standing  here !" 

Instantly  the  quick  Latimer  temper  kindled. 

"Indeed,"  he  cried,  "no  standing  here?  We  will  see. 
Kenneth,  Cosmo,  Dickson — who  of  you  will  lend  me  a 
gown  ?" 

The  nearest  advocate,  a  tall,  good-looking  fair-haired 
young  lawyer  of  the  name  of  Dickson,  perhaps  more  in- 
terested in  literature  than  in  pleas,  quickly  divested  him- 
self of  his  gown.  Sidney  threw  it  about  his  shoulders. 

"I  appear,"  he  said,  "as  counsel  for  the  prisoners — in 
addition,  that  is,  to  any  other  who  may  have  been  acting 
for  them.  I  trust  he  will  accept  of  my  assistance,  and  you, 
Mr.  Advocate  Depute,  will  now  inform  me  if  I  have  no 
standing  here !" 

The  judge,  whom  repeated  casual  encounters  with  the 
decanter  had  made  a  little  muzzy  as  to  his  head,  said  with 


304  STRONG  MAC 

a  little  stutter,  "But  have  you  been  admitted  to  the  Bar — 
the  Scottish  Bar,  I  mean?" 

"Certainly,  my  Lord,"  said  Sidney ;  "as  to  that,  several 
of  the  gentlemen  present  can  bear  me  witness.  It  is  true 
I  have  never  practised,  nor  even  appeared,  except  formally, 
before  any  court.  Nevertheless,  I  am  an  advocate,  and  as 
such  have  a  right  to  plead  in  any  court  in  the  realm !  May 
I  ask  who  is  the  gentleman  I  am  to  assist  ?" 

A  sharp  turn  of  all  eyes  directed  Latimer's  gaze  towards 
Mr.  Apollos  Dunn.  "Polly"  stood  looking  about  him  in 
dumb  surprise.  His  faculty  of  imitation  had  deserted  him 
in  the  unusual  circumstances.  His  carefully  prepared 
pathos  lost  its  point;  words  departed  from  him.  He 
gobbled  in  his  throat  and  sat  down  abruptly. 

Sidney  Latimer,  all  uninstructed,  was  left  to  make  the 
speech  for  the  defence. 

Even  this  was  not  to  be  permitted  to  him  uninterrupted. 
It  was  a  day  of  surprises  in  the  Drumfern  Circuit  Court. 
A  tall,  rough-looking,  but  jovially- faced  man  upreared 
himself  in  the  well  of  the  court. 

"Heavens  and  earth,"  whispered  the  younger  members 
of  the  Bar,  "what  if  it  be  the  other  murdered  man !  Ten 
to  one  it's  Ewan !" 

"And  the  sea  gave  up  the  dead  that  were  in  it !"  quoted 
Kenneth  Maitland,  irreverently,  under  his  breath  to 
Cosmo  Taylor. 

But  it  was  not  Ewan.  It  was  far  indeed  from  being 
Ewan.  Instead,  it  was  none  other  than  our  ancient  friend, 
Adam  McQuhirr  of  the  Gairie. 

"There's  a  Dumbie  here  that  canna  speak,"  he  said, 
"but  nocht  will  serve  him  but  he  maun  hae  a  twa-three 
words  wi'  your  Lordship !  It's  aboot  the  killin'  o'  Muckle 
Sandy  Ewan,  I'm  thinkinM" 

"And  why,"  said  his  Lordship,  angrily,  "if  the  deaf- 
and-dumb  person  has  anything  of  value  to  relate,  was  not 
his  evidence  brought  forward  by  the  counsel  for  the  de- 
fence at  the  proper  season  ?  All  this  is  extremely  incon- 
venient !" 


"BY  A  MAJORITY!"  305 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  my  Lord,"  said  the  honest 
farmer,  "but  the  coonsel-man  kenned  nocht  aboot  it,  puir 
falla!  I  hae  had  to  watch  Dumbie  for  three  nichts  up 
at  the  Gairie — me  and  Ailie,  my  sister,  that  is.  For  he 
was  neither  to  haud  nor  to  bind.  And  sair  wark  I  had  to 
get  him  here,  your  Lordship.  I  wad  rayther  hae  pitten  a 
scythe  through  the  hale  Lowran  meadow  twenty  times 
ower,  I  can  tell  ye  that !" 

"It  is  no  matter,"  said  his  Lordship,  "what  you  would 
or  would  not  have  done.  The  whole  business  is  most 
irregular.  I  never  yet  have  known  a  defence  conducted  in 
such  a  way,  Mr.  Dunn ;  I  cannot  but  think  you  are 
seriously  to  blame.  If  all  cases  were  dragged  out  in  this 
fashion,  the  circuit  courts  might  never  adjourn  at  all." 

"Better  that  than  the  hangin'  o'  twa  men  for  what  they 
ken  nocht  aboot !"  asserted  honest  Gairie  in  the  same  tone 
in  which  he  proposed  a  health  at  a  Wednesday's  farmers' 
ordinary. 

"Sit  down,  sir,"  said  the  judge,  severely ;  "it  is  very  un- 
seemly for  you  to  instruct  me — unworthy  instrument  of 
human  justice  as  I  have  always  acknowledged  myself  to 
be.  I  do  not  even  know  your  name !" 

"My  name,  sir,  is  welcome  to  you  to  ken,  and  to  every 
ither  honest  falla !"  returned  the  farmer.  "I  am  juist  plain 
Aidam  McQuhirr  o'  the  Gairie!  And,  by  my  certes,  if 
ever  ye  are  passin'  that  way,  dinna  be  blate — caa'  in,  and 
ye  shall  get  a  gless  or  twa  o'  the  best  whusky  in  Galloway ! 
And  atween  you  and  me  and  the  post,  my  Lord,  never  a 
penny  o'  duty — " 

"Silence!"  cried  the  judge,  rising  in  majesty;  "if  you 
say  a  word  more,  or  address  me  in  that  familiar  fashion 
again,  I  will  instantly  order  your  removal  from  the  court 
in  custody!" 

"Weel,  it  was  a  fair  offer  and  kindly  meant !"  said  the 
burly  farmer,  standing  to  his  guns ;  "onybody  that  kens 
Aidam  McQuhirr  will  tell  ye  as  muckle.  There's  the 
shirra  himsel',  at  your  ain  elbow.  He's  fell  fond  o' 
the  Gairie  un-ta'-en-doon !  'Deed  I'm  no  sae  sure  that  he 


306  STRONG  MAC 

wad  refuse  a  gless  o'  what  ye  hae  under  your  ain  nose, 
though  gin  ye  gat  it  at  the  'Queen's  Head'  it's  maistly 
logwud,  I'll  haud  to  that!" 

There  was  a  peal  of  laughter  all  over  the  court.  For  the 
tendencies  of  the  excellent  sheriff  were  well  known  in  the 
profession.  Even  the  judge  himself  was  pleased  to  smile. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  tolerantly,  "doubtless  you  mean 
no  harm.  Let  us  see  this  dumb  man.  I  am  somewhat 
acquainted  with  the  system,  having  taken  a  great  interest 
in  the  establishment  and  hospital  of  the  excellent  Mr. 
Braidwood  previous  to  his  removal  to  London,  often  visit- 
ing him  at  Dumbiedykes.  I  have  therefore  some  con- 
siderable skill  in  his  new  manual  of  signs  alphabetically 
expressed  upon  the  fingers.  Perhaps  your  deaf-and-dumb 
witness  has  been  at  some  period  of  his  life  a  pupil  of  his." 

The  chance  to  cross-examine  a  difficult  subject,  a  task 
at  which  he  had  been  specially  successful  as  an  advocate, 
quite  restored  the  temper  of  my  Lord  Pitfairly.  But 
Adam  McQuhirr  had  not  got  over  the  rejection  of  his 
offer  of  hospitality,  to  which,  indeed,  he  was  but  ill  accus- 
tomed. 

"The  laddie  is  nae  mair  deaf  than  you,  my  Lord — 
'deed,  to  tell  the  truth,  no  sae  muckle !  And  as  for  dumb, 
he  hasna  been  dumb  verra  lang,  and  hasna  learned  a  great 
deal  since  syne,  forbye  what  the  whaups  hae  cried  to  him 
up  on  the  muirs !" 

"Ah,  then  his  dumbness  has  been  the  result  of  an  acci- 
dent," said  the  judge;  "let  him  come  and  be  sworn.  I 
permit  it — if  he  has  anything  to  put  before  the  court." 

The  advocate  depute  interposed  a  merely  pro  forma  ob- 
jection, for  even  he  was  curious  to  know  to  what  all  this 
might  tend. 

Presently  Adam  McQuhirr's  tall  and  rugged  form  was 
seen  forcing  a  way  through  the  densely  packed  masses  of 
people  in  the  direction  of  the  witness  box.  He  appeared 
to  be  carrying  a  swathed  bundle  in  his  arms. 

"Ye  see,"  he  explained  generally  to  the  court,  as  he  ad- 
vanced, "it's  no  that  he  needs  to  be  carried !  He's  no  that 


"BY  A  MAJORITY!"  307 

ill.  Na,  na,  111  wager  that  oot  on  the  muirs,  deevil  a  yin 
o'  ye  could  catch  him — no  even  you  young  birkies  o' 
lawyers.  He  can  rin  like  a  hare  and  hide  like  a  whutterick 
in  a  stane  dyke.  But  here,  amang  sae  mony  feet,  the  puir 
thing  micht  get  trampit  on." 

And  with  these  words  Adam  deposited  on  the  seat  of 

the  witness  box  Daid  the  Deil ! 

*  #  #  *  *  *  * 

The  judge,  who  had  affected  not  to  hear  the  later  re- 
marks of  the  incorrigible  Aidam  now  began  some  ex- 
cessively complicated  manoeuvres  with  his  fingers,  while 
at  the  same  time  his  lips  formed  the  letters  he  was  en- 
deavouring to  express  upon  his  hands.  Sometimes  he 
would  get  tangled  in  a  combination,  whereupon  he  would 
shake  his  fingers  pettishly,  as  if  wiping  them  of  soap-suds. 

"Tut-tut,"  he  muttered,  "I  am  out  of  practice.  It  is  so 
long  since  I  studied  the  system." 

Then  glancing  up,  for  the  first  time  my  Lord  looked  at 
Daid.  His  jaw  instantly  dropped.  Never,  in  all  his  ex- 
perience of  courts,  as  member  of  the  Bar,  advocate  depute, 
or  judge,  had  such  an  object  faced  him  in  the  witness  box. 
He  half  started  up  from  his  chair,  as  if  to  make  a  more 
careful  observation,  then  as  abruptly  dropped  back  again. 

"What — what  is  this?"  he  stammered;  "is  it  human? 
Who  has  done  this?" 

He  was  forgetting  the  old  examining  practice  of  getting 
an  answer  to  one  question  before  asking  another. 

"Perhaps,"  he  added  with  sudden  compunction,  "it 
would  be  better  if  he  were  first  of  all  examined  in  my 
private  room — !" 

A  murmur  of  dissatisfaction  went  up  from  the  crowded 
court. 

"It's  my  opinion,"  said  Adam  McQuhirr,  deliberately, 
"that  if  your  Lordship  wad  hand  him  a  killyvine  (lead- 
pencil),  Daid  could  answer  your  questions  as  weel  as  if 
he  had  been  bred  to  the  law !" 

"He  can  write,  then  ?"  said  Lord  Pitfairly. 

"Write  ?"  cried  Adam,  indignantly,  "aye,  as  weel  as  ony 


308  STRONG   MAC 

clerk  amang  them  a'!  Faith,  I'm  tellin'  ye  no  lee — it 
was  Adora  Gracie  that  learned  him !" 

Pencil  and  paper  were  handed  up  to  the  dumb  boy, 
whose  terribly  scarred  face  sent  a  shuddering  awe  through 
the  packed  ranks  of  the  spectators.  His  Lordship  pro- 
ceeded to  ask  the  questions,  after  having  given  Adam  Mc- 
Quhirr  permission  to  remain  near  the  box  in  case  his 
strength  or  influence  was  required. 

"What  is  your  name?"  said  the  judge  in  a  loud  voice. 

"Ye  needna  billy  like  a  goat,  my  Lord,"  said  Adam  Mc- 
Quhirr;  "Daid's  nane  deaf,  I'm  tellin'  ye!" 

And  indeed  hardly  had  the  words  left  the  mouth  of 
Lord  Pitfairly  than  the  answer  was  ready  upon  the  sheet 
of  paper. 

"I  wish  my  clerk,  young  lazy  whelp,  could  do  his  work 
one  half  as  quickly,"  said  Kenneth  Maitland  in  an  under- 
tone to  Sidney  Latimer ;  "not  that  I  ever  need  him  except 
to  clean  my  pipes !  Is  this  your  first  case  ?" 

Sidney  nodded,  his  eyes  on  the  boy  in  the  witness  box. 

"You  beat  me — I  never  had  one !"  murmured  his  friend ; 
"my  first  will  be  a  case  of  justifiable  homicide — that  is,  if 
old  Pitfairly  continues  to  bore  me  with  the  fulfilment  of 
prophecy  and  Jacob's  ten  horns !  Was  it  Jacob  who  had 
the  ten  horns  or  the  coat  of  many  colours  ?" 

"Mushf 

The  judge  was  reading  the  paper. 

"David  McRobb  is  my  name,  aged  fourteen,  but  small 
for  my  age,  born  at  Lowran,  and  I  ken  wha  killed  Sandy 
Ewan!" 

This  was  indeed  conclusive  evidence  of  his  right  to  be 
heard  as  a  witness  in  the  case.  The  judge  looked  up  and 
nodded. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  his  suavity  returning  to  him  at  the  hope 
of  success,  "you  have  information  about  the  murder  of 
Sandy  Ewan?  Well,  be  good  enough  to  tell  us  what  you 
know !" 

"It  wasna  a  murder,  it  zvas  a  fecht !" 

"So !"  said  the  judge,  pleased  that  his  own  preconceived 


"BY  A  MAJORITY!"  309 

opinions  were  likely  to  be  substantiated;  "then  I  take  it 
that  the  younger  prisoner,  Roy  McCulloch,  had  a  quarrel 
with  Alexander  Ewan,  and  in  the  course  of  the  fight,  acci- 
dentally killed  him?" 

The  twisted  crow's-foot  hand  wrote  rapidly.  The  paper 
was  passed  over  by  an  officer  of  the  court.  The  gold 
spectacles  were  found  shoved  up  into  the  wig,  and  Lord 
Pit  fairly  took  a  deliberate  pinch  of  snuff  as  he  adjusted 
them  before  reading — whereby  a  whispered  malediction 
was  made  to  arise  from  the  eager  and  expectant  auditory. 

"It  wasna  Roy  McCulloch  that  killed  Sandy  Ewan." 
the  judge  read,  slowly.  "Roy  was  never  near  the  Boreland 
that  mcht.  Dickie  Dick  is  a  LIAR,  and  the  other  mem, 
too." 

The  judge  looked  stern  for  the  first  time  since  the 
strange  witness  appeared  in  the  box. 

"Then  you  must  instantly  reveal  the  name  of  the  mur- 
derer of  Sandy  Ewan !"  he  said.  And  again  with  no 
hesitation  the  pencil  flew  over  the  paper.  During  the 
months  in  the  garret  of  Aline's  cottage,  Daid  had  had 
plenty  of  practice. 

"I  will  not  tell  a  soul  wha  killed  Sandy  Ewan.  I  will 
kill  the  man  mysel' !" 

The  judge  read  these  words  twice  over,  as  if  doubtful 
whether  his  gold-rimmed  glasses  were  doing  their  duty. 
Then  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  misshapen  atomy  in  the 
box,  with  honest  Adam  McQuhirr  on  guard  beside  him. 

"What?"  he  cried ;  "what  have  you  to  do  with  the  man 
that  you  should  make  such  a  dreadful  threat?" 

For  all  answer  the  boy  slowly  opened  his  mouth  and 
pointed  with  his  finger  at  something  black  within. 

"He  did  that!"  The  fingers  wrote  rapidly  and  threw 
the  pencil  on  the  floor. 

Daid  the  Deil's  examination  was  over. 


After  a  time  the  advocate  depute  collected  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  point  out  that  in  the  altered  circumstances,  and 


3io  STRONG   MAC 

owing  to  the  extraordinary  course  the  judicial  proceedings 
had  taken,  he  had  a  right  to  return  again  upon  his  req- 
uisitory  speech.  To  this  the  judge  assented,  and  that 
impassive  man,  Mr.  Melville  Dundas,  began  by  assuring 
his  Lordship  that  a  very  few  words  would  serve  him. 
There  was,  he  admitted,  no  use  in  proceeding  with  the 
first  charge,  when  the  man  whom  the  panels  were  accused 
of  murdering  was  acting  as  their  junior  council.  At  the 
same  time,  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  there  was  some- 
thing exceedingly  improper,  not  to  say  illegitimate,  in  the 
way  in  which  justice  had  been  trifled  with !  And  the  pro- 
ceedings of  Mr.  Sidney  Latimer,  both  on  the  night  of  his 
disappearance  and  afterwards,  in  refusing  to  communi- 
cate his  whereabouts,  seemed  to  him  to  call  for  judicial 
investigation,  if  not  in  a  court  of  law — at  least  by  the 
Society  of  Advocates. 

As  to  the  second  charge,  and  with  regard  to  the  extra- 
ordinary evidence,  if  he  might  call  it  evidence,  which  had 
been  given  by  a  boy  who  declared  himself  a  second  victim 
of  the  murderer  of  Alexander  Ewan,  he  would  point  out 
to  the  jury  that  it  left  the  case  against  the  younger  panel 
much  as  before.  There  was  only  the  unsupported  asser- 
tion of  the  dumb  boy  that  not  Roy  McCulloch,  but  another 
unnamed  (against  whom,  very  improperly,  he  meditated 
personal  vengeance),  was  the  guilty  person.  He  (the 
advocate  depute)  need  not  remind  the  intelligent  jury  he 
saw  before  him  that  this  was  neither  evidence,  nor  any- 
thing even  remotely  approaching  the  nature  of  evidence. 
There  was,  for  instance,  the  affair  of  the  sheepskins,  yet 
unexplained  and  extremely  suspicious — " 

At  this  point  of  the  advocate  depute's  speech  a  strange 
eldricht  laugh  was  heard,  the  laugh  of  the  maimed  boy. 
Without  rising  from  his  friend's  knee  the  Dumbie  scat- 
tered a  handful  of  something  resembling  white  furry  wil- 
low leaves  in  the  direction  of  the  Bar  and  jury  box.  Then 
snatching  up  a  sheet  of  paper,  he  again  wrote  rapidly. 
Adam  McQuirr  looked  at  his  protege  with  modest  pride. 
Daid  was  beating  the  lawyers — the  first  duty  of  every 


"BY  A  MAJORITY!"  311 

country-bred  Scot,  as  often  as  he  approaches  the  doors  of 
a  court. 

"I  do  not  know — I  put  it  to  your  Lordship  whether  at 
this  stage  further  interruptions  of  this  sort — "  Thus  Mr. 
Melville  Dundas  appealed  against  fate. 

But  the  curiosity  of  Lord  Pitf airly  was  strong,  so  while 
the  officers  of  the  assizes,  together  (sad  it  is  to  relate)  with 
the  members  of  the  junior  Bar,  were  scrambling  for  the 
curious  leaf-shaped  things,  the  judge  read:  "There — 
match  thae  wif  the  fleeces  ye  hae  at  the  fiscal' s.  They  hae 
a'  the  McCullochs'  ain  mark!  What  think  ye  o'  that?" 

This  was  doubtless  something  of  the  nature  of  an  anti- 
climax, but  to  the  men  who  sat  on  the  seats  of  the  jury 
box,  a  little  weary  of  speeches  and  witnesses,  it  was  also 
the  most  telling  piece  of  evidence  of  the  day,  and  did  more 
for  Roy  McCulloch  than  all  the  rest  put  together — 
hardly  even  excepting  the  dramatic  appearance  of  Sidney 
Latimer. 

For  the  furry  things,  thus  informally  produced,  were 
the  ears  of  the  very  sheep  which  Roy  had  been  accused  of 
stealing,  and  (as  Daid  had  said)  each  of  them  bore  not 
only  the  McCulloch  ear-mark,  but  remains  of  the  blue  Mc- 
Culloch keel. 

Upon  demand  of  Sidney  Latimer  certain  of  the  fleeces 
were  brought  in  and  the  ears  fitted  on  by  the  jury  them- 
selves, amid  expressions  of  delight.  These  honest  men  did 
not  understand  legal  technicalities,  but — they  knew  that 
the  farmer  who  was  accused  of  stealing  his  own  sheep 
must  be  an  innocent  and  deeply  wronged  man.  The  effect 
was  so  strong  that  Sidney  Latimer,  coached  by  an  old 
circuit  lawyer,  waived  his  right  to  reply,  and  (what  was 
of  infinitely  more  service)  induced  Mr.  Apollos  Dunn  to 
do  the  same.  Lord  Pitfairly  summed  up  in  a  gush  of  ad- 
miration for  the  wonderful  providences  of  the  Almighty, 
under  which  the  whole  house,  except  the  accused  persons, 
sat  visibly  uneasy.  It  all  seemed  to  have  come  about 
owing  to  Lord  Pitfairly's  influence  with  Things  Above. 

"I  wonder  if  I  had  a  shot  at  him  with  my  snuff-box, 


312  STRONG  MAC 

what  I  would  get !  But  I  doubt  if  even  that  would  make 
him  stop,"  groaned  Kenneth  Maitland,  nudging  Sidney 
under  the  latter's  borrowed  gown. 

The  jury  retired,  and  instantly  there  arose  a  terrible 
chatter  of  talk.  The  judge  withdrew  into  a  certain 
gloomy  cubby-hole  which  in  the  old  court-house  of  Drum- 
fern  was  called  "his  Lordship's  chamber."  One  hour, 
two  hours  passed  slowly  away. 

"Are  they  going  to  convict  after  all — it's  juist  no 
possible !"  whispered  the  crowd. 

"Guid  peety  them,  then,"  said  a  strong-handed  Drum- 
fern  mason,  spitting  on  his  palms  to  allay  his  nervousness, 
"they'll  never  get  past  Nith  Brig  wi'  the  breath  o'  life  in 
them,  if  they  do!" 

"Na,  I  wadna  gie  a  penny-worth  o'  alicreesh  for  their 
twal  necks,  if  they  bring  it  in  for  that  bonny  lad  to  be 
hanged!"  said  a  sturdy  dame  of  the  wash-tub.  "Faith, 
though,  yonder's  the  provost,  that's  their  kind  o'  head- 
man. I  hae  a  craw  to  pick  wi'  him  onyway.  He  was  gye 
impident  to  my  guidman  at  the  last  borough  coort !  And 
only  for  being  fand  drunk  on  the  Sands  and  burstin'  the 
toon  drum  ower  the  drummer's  ain  heid !" 

The  jury  trooped  back,  smiles  on  every  face,  save  one. 
The  provost  had  done  his  duty  and  saved  his  neck. 

Lord  Pitfairly  came  in,  dusting  ruddy  drops  off  his 
ermine,  also  shaking  the  crumbs  out  of  the  folds  of  his 
robe  judicial. 

The  provost,  who  had  been  chosen  foreman  by  general 
consent,  stood  forward  in  answer  to  his  Lordship's  formal 
question. 

"We  find  unanimously,"  he  spoke  slowly,  in  imitation  of 
the  advocate  depute  (whose  style  he  admired,  in  spite  of 
having  traversed  his  conclusions),  "that  the  accused  are 
not  guilty  of  causing  the  death  of  Mr.  Sidney  Latimer"  (a 
murmur  of  laughter,  instantly  suppressed,  here)  "and,  by 
a  majority,  that  Roy  McCulloch  is  not  guilty  of  the  murder 
of  Alexander  Ewan !" 

"By  a  majority !" 


"BY  A  MAJORITY!"  313 

The  court  buzzed  with  excitement  at  the  unexpected 
qualification  of  the  verdict.  His  Lordship,  after  the  for- 
mal liberation  of  the  prisoners,  could  hardly  wait  till  he 
was  in  the  decent  retirement  of  his  chamber  in  order  to 
summon  Kenneth  Maitland  to  find  out  what  was  the  ma- 
jority, and  who  it  could  be  that,  in  spite  of  his  charge,  still 
thought  the  McCullochs  guilty. 

Maitland,  who  could  read  the  signs  of  the  times  as  well 
as  any  man,  and  who  knew  that  he  would  have  no  peace 
till  he  had  reported  everything,  waited  for  the  provost's 
exit. 

"What  was  the  majority?"  he  said  in  the  hearing  of 
Adam  McQuhirr,  who  held  his  tongueless  burden  in  his 
arms. 

"Eleven  to  one !"  said  the  provost,  somewhat  reluctantly, 
it  must  be  said. 

"And  who  was  the  one — ?  It's  his  Lordship  himself 
who  has  sent  to  ask,"  said  Kenneth,  hardily. 

"Jonathan  Grier — the  Laird  ofLowran's  game-keeper!" 
answered  the  provost. 

And  in  the  strong  arms  of  the  man  Adam,  the  eyes  of 
a  little  maimed  boy  glowed  like  coals  of  fire. 

"Hush  thee !"  murmured  the  good  man,  soothing 
Daid  the  Deil  like  an  infant,  "we  will  soon  be  hame  noo. 
And,  bless  me,  vender's  Adora!" 

But  the  quick  eyes  of  fire  were  fixed  on  something  else 
than  the  face  of  Adora  Gracie.  They  saw  Jonathan  Grier 
slinking  away  through  the  crowd,  fearful  that  he  would 
be  recognised. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

TWO   MEN   AND   THE   WOMAN. 

WITH  a  quick  gasp  of  apprehension,  Sidney  Latimer 
understood  that  his  time  was  come.  Truly  he  had 
laboured  for  naught.  The  good  he  had  wrought  was 
turned  to  evil,  even  as  he  knew  it  would.  Apples  of 
Sodom  were  to  be  the  only  fruit  of  his  toil  and  travail. 

Adora  had  come  with  the  post-chaise  the  fourteen  miles 
from  Thornhill,  and  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  meet  Roy 
McCulloch  as  he  stepped  into  God's  blowing  airs  upon  the 
streets  of  Drumfern,  once  more  a  free  man.  His  bold, 
strong  face  showed  pale  and  more  sharply  cut  than  of 
yore.  He  was  indeed  "sair  shilpit,"  as  Aline  put  it  when 
she  saw  him.  Yet  he  looked  not  the  worse  for  that,  at 
least  so  thought  Adora,  as  she  saw  him  coming  towards 
her. 

The  two  silently  shook  hands,  the  eyes  of  Sidney  Lati- 
mer watching  them  jealously  from  afar,  almost  disap- 
pointed that  he  could  find  no  fault  with  their  behaviour  in 
presence  of  each  other. 

Sharon  it  was  who  overpassed  his  son  with  his  prompter 
word,  speaking  gravely  and  steadily,  as  if  he  had  only 
come  to  Drumfern  upon  a  short  and  ordinary  journey  to  a 
Wednesday's  market. 

"Ye  will  come  back  wi'  us  to  House  o'  Muir  and  set  the 
place  in  order  a  wee !"  he  said. 

Sadly  Adora  shook  her  head.    It  could  not  be,  she  saw 


THE  TWO  SILENTLY  SHOOK  HANDS." 


TWO  MEN   AND   THE   WOMAN          315 

well — not  with  Sidney  Latimer  there  to  think  the  thought 
she  knew  was  in  his  heart. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  answered  gently.  "House  of  Muir 
was  a  good  home  and  a  pleasant  till  that  befell  which  be- 
fell. But  since  then  Aline  McQuhirr  has  given  my  father 
shelter,  and  I  cannot  be  quit  of  her  like  an  old  shoe.  She 
took  us  in  when  none  else  would,  the  door  of  House  of 
Muir  being  shut!  I  must  return  and  do  what  I  can  to 
repay  her." 

Then  for  the  first  time  Roy  spoke.  Never  till  now  had 
he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  Adora  Gracie. 

"Do  not  let  any  thought  of  me  keep  you  back,"  he  said. 
"My  father  needs  that  some  woman  should  fend  for  him. 
I  shall  not  be  there.  I  swear  before  you  all  that  I  shall  not 
sleep  in  my  own  bed  nor  be  sheltered  by  my  own  roof-tree 
till  I  hunt  down  the  true  murderer  of  Sandy  Ewan! 
Though  but  one  believed  me  guilty,  I  count  not  myself  to 
be  cleared  of  suspicion  while  the  matter  is  dark !" 

His  father  turned  to  him  gently.  Prison  had  drawn 
them  more  closely  together  than  ever  before,  they  who 
had  spoken  but  little  to  each  other  while  the  meal-ark  was 
full  in  the  kitchen  of  House  of  Muir.  But  they  had  be- 
come friends  in  the  drear  dusks  and  mouldy  cells  of  the 
"Thieves'  Hole"  of  St.  Cuthbertstown. 

"Roy,"  he  said,  "take  an  old  man's  word  for  it — even 
your  father's !  Let  not  the  thing  trouble  you !  Come  your 
ways  back  to  House  of  Muir !  Bravely  do  ye  ken  who  it 
was  that  would  not  find  ye  innocent  of  the  thing  they  laid 
to  your  charge.  But  of  that  I  shall  bear  my  part,  and  you 
yours !" 

"No,  faither,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  certain  grave 
tenderness  in  the  Scottish  word,  "I  will  never  enter  the 
door  of  House  of  Muir  till  I  have  made  it  all  plain  to  the 
world — the  crime  and  the  criminal  alike !" 

"Little  ye  ken  what  ye  undertake,"  said  his  father; 
"mony  are  the  cauld,  blashy  days  and  wet,  cauldrife  nichts 
ye  maun  bide  oot  on  the  hills,  to  find  out  a  deed  done  in 
secret  like  that.  Moreover,  it  concerns  not  you.  Come 


316  STRONG  MAC 

hame,  lad.  Ye  are  cleared  in  the  sight  o'  men.  Hearken 
to  that !  And  as  to  God,  He  kens  a'  thing !" 

The  clamours  of  the  cheering  had  not  yet  wholly  died 
away.  Mixed  with  it  came  a  wild  hoot  of  execration,  a 
noise  as  of  the  howling  of  dogs  on  a  trail.  It  was,  they 
said,  Jonathan  Grier  running  in  fear  of  his  life  for  the 
Maxwelltown  bridge-end.  Had  the  good  wives  caught 
the  Lowran  gamekeeper  that  night,  it  had  not  gone  well 
with  him  on  the  plain-stones  of  Drumfern.  The  McCul- 
lochs  had  never  been  so  popular  in  their  lives.  And  had 
their  manners,  or  rather  those  of  Sharon,  been  a  little  more 
approachable,  they  would  have  been  chaired  round  the 
town  like  a  successful  candidate  for  parliament.  But 
Sharon  was  too  grim  and  Roy  had  other  things  to  think 
about.  So  the  popularity  of  a  moment  spent  itself  vaguely 
in  invitations  to  drink  at  the  Queen's  Head,  the  King's 
Arms,  and  other  well-known  hostelries. 

First  of  all,  however,  there  was  Sidney  Latimer  to 
thank,  and  to  Roy  McCulloch  the  task  was  no  pleasant 
one.  The  gulf  fixed  between  what  a  rich  man  may  do  for 
a  poor  one,  and  the  return  a  poor  man  can  make  to  one 
richer  than  himself,  yawned  before  Roy's  feet. 

Added  to  which,  Adora  had  travelled  far  alone  in  the 
company  of  this  man.  She  had  gone,  so  they  said,  to  a 
foreign  land  to  find  him.  They  had  returned  together. 
There  remained  therefore  nothing  for  the  young  man  to 
do  save  to  render  his  thanks  to  both,  and  to  betake 
him  into  the  wilderness  till  he  had  accomplished  his 
vow. 

As  for  Adam  McQuhirr,  he  had  long  ago  disappeared 
with  Daid  the  Deil,  and  his  heavy  "conveyance"  was  by 
this  time  lumbering  westwards  in  the  direction  of  the  Four 
Mile  House  upon  the  Springholm  road.  As  the  old 
long-tailed  plough-horse  jogged  slowly  along,  Adam  was 
already  thinking  of  his  welcome  home,  and  of  all  that  he 
would  have  to  tell.  None  could  possibly  forestall  him. 
He  would  have  the  whole  tale  of  how  he  bearded  the  Red 
Judge  to  himself.  And  none  knew  better  than  he  how  to 


TWO  MEN   AND   THE   WOMAN          317 

make  the  best  use  of  his  monopoly.  He  foresaw  many  a 
brewing  of  the  undutied  "un-ta'en-doon,"  which  he  had 
offered  to  my  Lord  Pitfairly,  ere  the  grey  hairs  of  age 
should  show  upon  his  narrative  or  upon  his  listeners'  ap- 
preciation of  it. 

With  her  usual  determination  Adora  was  resolved  that 
Roy  McCulloch  should  remain  in  no  misapprehension  of 
the  relations  which  existed  between  herself  and  Sidney 
Latimer.  She  had  read  novels  and  romances  in  her  day, 
especially  since  Sidney  had  been  accustomed  to  bring  the 
more  recently  published  books  to  her  father.  Accordingly 
she  had  noted  that  "misunderstanding"  is  the  writer's 
most  frequent  device  for  prolonging  a  tale,  and  her  strong 
common  sense  had  marked  it  with  growing  resentment  as 
by  much  the  most  foolish.  Whatever  the  course  of  her 
life  was  to  be,  there  would  be  no  misunderstanding  as  to 
her  intentions  and  resolves.  Sidney  Latimer  should 
understand.  Roy  McCulloch  should  understand.  If 
either  took  offense — well,  as  the  proverb  says,  that  would 
be  to  Adora  "but  one  stone  the  less  in  my  garden !" 

Adora  knew  that  Sidney  Latimer  was  watching 
her  jealously,  even  when  his  mother  was  hanging  on  his 
arm,  urging  him  to  go  with  her  to  the  King's  Arms  that 
he  might  eat  and  rest.  Nevertheless,  she  was  resolved  that 
Roy  should  not  leave  home  on  her  account.  So  on  the 
High  Street  of  Drumfern  she  asked  him  plainly  to  come 
to  a  little  hostelry  called  the  Cross  Keys,  situated  in  a  by- 
street, away  from  the  throng  of  the  market-place  and  the 
hubbub  of  the  great  day  of  the  assizes. 

"A  friend  of  mine  is  waiting  for  us  there,  whose  ac- 
quaintance I  desire  that  you  should  make !"  she  said. 

It  was  characteristic  of  both  of  them  that  there  should 
be  no  thanks  expected  or  proffered  between  these  two. 
The  bonds  of  ancientest  amity  held  them  silent.  Of  course 
if  Adora  had  been  at  the  point  of  death  or  in  any  mortal 
strait  Roy  would  have  done  his  best  to  save  her.  It 
seemed  natural  to  him,  therefore,  that  Adora  should  try 
in  his  case,  and  equally  natural  that  she  should  succeed. 


318  STRONG  MAC 

Adora  had  always  been  the  cleverer.  That  Roy  would  die 
for  Adora  was  but  a  little  thing  to  say.  As  air  was  made 
to  breathe,  water  to  drink,  so  he,  Roy  McCulloch,  was  for 
Adora  Gracie  to  use  as  it  might  seem  good  to  her. 

Soberly  enough,  therefore,  the  McCullochs  walked  to 
the  inn,  and  followed  Adora  upstairs  to  the  parlour  she 
had  hired. 

"My  friend,  Captain  Ebenezer  Sinclair!"  she  said, 
smiling  at  the  three  tall  men  who  waited  awkwardly 
enough,  so  close  together  that  they  seemed  to  fill  the 
whole  space  of  the  little  room. 

Roy  shook  hands,  somewhat  shyly,  but  Sharon,  who  fol- 
lowed, stood  with  a  certain  grim  humour  playing  about  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  He  did  not  hold  out  his  hand  for 
several  seconds.  He  only  gazed  at  the  bronzed  and 
wrinkled  sea-captain  in  front  of  him. 

"You  have  forgotten  me,  I  see,  Ebenezer!"  he  said  at 
last.  In  his  turn  the  captain  gazed  uncertain,  his  arm  at 
first  stretched  out,  then  half  withdrawn. 

"So  it  was  you  who  helped  this  young  lass  to  find  the 
only  man  that  could  save  my  auld  neck  1"  he  said,  grimly. 
"Well,  that  is  maybe  tit  for  tat.  Ebenezer  Sinclair,  do  you 
remember  Valencia?  A  white  day  of  driving  stour,  every- 
body as  floury  as  a  miller,  the  long  road  to  the  Grao  where 
a  certain  ship  lay — and — ?" 

"God  help  us,  lad,"  cried  the  captain,  all  at  once  heaving 
himself  forward,  "you  are  never  the  smuggler  that  saved 
me  from  yon  mob  o'  yelly-hooin'  deevils  ?  Man,  I  thocht 
ye  were  a  Spaniard.  I  mind — will  I  ever  forget?  Their 
knives  glittered  like  fork  lightning  on  the  water — " 

"Aye,  there  were  a  wheen  as  wild  lads  amang  them  as 
ye  could  forgather  wi'  between  Tarifa  and  the  Pyrenees ! 
But  yin  Sharon  McCulloch  was  a  wilder  in  thae  days! 
Guid  f orgie  him !  What  was  your  trouble — I  forget  ?  Ye 
were  some  deal  tewed  up  wi'  a  lass,  were  ye  no  ?" 

But  at  the  word  the  sea-captain  made  a  sign  with  his 
hand,  signifying  that  Adora's  presence  must  not  be  for- 
gotten in  such  speech  between  men. 


TWO  MEN   AND   THE   WOMAN          319 

"Abide — abide/'  said  Sharon,  laughing,  "ye  will  be 
telling  her  the  tale  yoursel'  some  day  or  lang  as  she  sits 
knitting  by  the  fireside !" 

"And  now,  captain,"  said  Adora,  who  among  other  gifts 
had  that  of  stopping  any  conversation  of  the  drift  of  which 
she  did  not  approve,  "will  you  tell  these  two  gentlemen 
all  that  has  happened  since  Adam  McQuhirr  put  me  on 
board  the  Fortune's  Queen  at  Port  Glasgow  ?  It  was  your 
kindness  that  saved  their  lives!" 

"My  kindness !"  said  the  captain,  with  a  look  of  admira- 
tion at  the  girl  before  him,  "richt  willin'  wad  I  be  to  tak' 
the  credit,  but  the  solemn  fact  is  I  had  nae  mair 
to  do  wi'  bringin'  the  y^ung  Laird  o'  Lowran  hame  to — 
to—" 

"To  save  our  necks !"  said  Sharon,  nodding  grimly. 

"Weel,  to  keep  the  hangman  and  you  frae  being  better 
acquaint,"  amended  the  sea-captain;  "it's  an  unkindly 
death,  hangin' — and  for  the  sake  o'  byeganes,  Ebenezer 
Sinclair  wad  be  sair  vexed  to  see  ony  that  belonged  to  ye 
gangin'  that  road !  But  it  was  a'  the  lass !  Hers  is  the 
credit  frae  first  to  last !" 

"I  did  not  bring  them  here  only  to  listen  to  you  telling 
them  that !"  said  Adora,  a  little  tartly. 

The  captain  looked  up  astonished. 

"I  hope  then,"  he  said,  "that  ye  werena  expectin'  me  to 
tell  them  a  pack  o'  lees !" 

Then  a  flash  of  understanding — of  what  the  captain  of 
the  Fortune's  Queen  took  for  consummate  knowledge  of 
womankind,  shot  through  his  mind. 

"Davert !"  he  said  to  himself,  "but  I'll  wager  the  lassie 
is  makin'  a  fool  o'  auld  Ebie  Sinclair.  Twa  strings  to  her 
bow,  has  she,  the  besom?  Weel,  Ebenezer,  think  on  the 
days  o'  your  vainity  and  that  lass  at  Valencia,  no  to  men- 
tion ony  mair  names ! — syne  ask  yourself  if  it's  for  you  to 
pit  your  hand  to  the  dykeside  and  up  wi'  the  first  stane ! 
Your  job,  my  lad,  is  juist  to  back  the  lass  up!  I  wadna 
hae  thocht  she  had  it  in  her,  the  cunning  wee  blastie! 
But,  fegs,  Ebenezer,  lad,  it's  juist  yae  lesson  the  mair  to 


320  STRONG  MAC 

ye,  even  at  your  time  o'  life!  Oh,  thae  weemen,  thae 
weemen !" 

And  with  this  idea  firmly  rooted  in  his  head,  it  will  be 
understood  that  the  worthy  captain  skilfully  played  his 
part !  That  is,  according  to  his  conception  of  it. 

So,  Ebenezer  Sinclair  being  witness,  never  in  the  history 
of  the  world  had  there  been  anything  more  single-eyed 
and  matter-of-fact  than  the  search  for  Sidney  Latimer. 
To  Adora  alone  the  honour!  She  had  sought  for  this 
man  as  for  hid  treasure,  but  it  was  to  save  the  life  of  an- 
other. Roy  McCulloch  was  that  other.  The  waves  of 
Biscay,  the  landing  at  Bilbao,  the  adventures  of  Hernani, 
the  rescue  and  the  return,  lost  nothing  when  the  captain 
of  the  Fortune's  Queen  set  out  "to  do  the  puir  lass  a  guid 
turn !"  Only  he  took  care  to  say  nothing  about  the 
moment  when  she  had  rested  unconscious  in  Sidney  Lati- 
mer's  arms,  or  the  kiss  which  had  been  laid  upon  her  lips 
while  her  eyes  were  closed.  Consenting  or  not  consent- 
ing, conscious  or  unconscious — that  was  no  business  of 
faithful  Captain  Ebenezer's. 

"If  it's  the  ither  yin,  after  a',"  he  meditated,  "she  can 
tell  him  whatever  she  likes  aboot  ony  bits  o'  trifles  like 
that !  Trust  a  woman  for  a  story !" 

He  might  have  spared  his  pains.  Roy  McCulloch  had 
had  it  fixed  in  his  mind  during  his  second  sojourn  in 
prison  that  Adora  Gracie  was  not  for  him.  So  he 
listened  to  the  captain's  recital  with  dulled  ears,  only 
firming  his  lips  a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  peril  Adora 
had  escaped  in  the  house  of  Hernani.  He  loved  her — 
yes,  more  than  ever.  That  needed  not  to  be  said.  But  to 
his  eyes,  long  deprived  of  light  and  air  and  beauty,  there 
was  a  new  nobility  and  wonder  in  Adora's  look.  The 
barrier  between  them  had  grown  noticeably  higher.  This, 
then,  was  Strong  Mac's  thought.  Deep  in  his  slow,  faith- 
ful, delving  mind,  he  made  this  resolve,  that  so  long  as 
there  was  the  least  stain  upon  his  character,  he  would 
never  be  fit  to  look  any  good  woman  in  the  face. 

He  had  been  liberated  by  the  judge.     Eleven  out  of 


TWO  MEN   AND   THE  WOMAN          321 

twelve  of  a  jury  of  his  countrymen  had  found  him  inno- 
cent of  the  foulness  of  midnight  slaughter.  Still  to  his 
own  mind  there  remained  a  doubt.  The  words  "by  a  ma- 
jority" stuck  in  his  throat.  Not  until  the  truth  was  fully 
made  known  would  he  walk  in  the  ways  of  ordinary  men. 

As  to  Adora,  she  must  marry  the  man  who  was  worthy 
of  her,  the  man  without  stain,  the  man  who  for  her  sake 
had  done  a  noble  and  worthy  act,  who  could  give  her  at 
once  a  great  position.  Yes,  there  was  not  a  doubt  of  it. 
Adora  would  marry  Sidney  Latimer.  And  Roy  tried  to 
make  believe  that  he  would  be  glad. 

But  in  the  meantime  Roy  McCulloch  would  clear  his 
character,  and  so  be  able  to  stand  once  more  as  a  man 
among  men,  reproach-free  and  unafraid. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

THE   SHEIL   OF  THE   BLACK   WATER. 

IT  was  to  the  Sheil  of  the  Upper  Airie,  above  the  sullen 
muirland  courses  of  the  Black  Water  of  Dee  that  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch  had  withdrawn  himself.  To  others  his  purpose 
might  have  seemed  Quixotic  and  irrational.  It  was  defi- 
nite and  clear  to  himself. 

Said  his  father — who  took,  though  quietly,  the  former 
view,  "Lad,  the  jury  of  your  countrymen  and  the  guid 
word  of  a  judge  o'  the  land  should  be  enough  for  you,  as  it 
was  for  me !  But — let  every  man  be  fully  persuaded  in  his 
ain  mind !" 

It  was  his  favourite  scriptural  maxim,  and  further  than 
that  he  made  no  attempt  to  influence  his  son.  He  silently 
accepted  Roy's  help  at  critical  seasons  of  lambing  or 
winter- feeding.  For  to  a  vigorous  moorsman  like  Roy  the 
distance  was  not  great  between  Sharon  McCulloch's 
property  and  the  Sheil  of  the  Black  Water.  So  from  that 
time  forth  Roy  was  constantly  on  the  great  wide-open 
world  of  the  hills,  lying  out  there  so  still  with  its  face  to 
the  skies.  Never  had  Adam  McQuhirr,  that  excellent 
farmer,  had  such  a  herd  as  Roy  was  in  these  days.  And 
indeed  he  often  stated  in  company  his  admiration  for  the 
young  man. 

But  Aline  did  not  at  all  agree  with  his  praises.  She  was 
silent  under  them.  For  to  her  Roy's  fault  was  that  he 
came  no  more  to  the  cottage  by  the  loaning-end,  where  he 
well  knew  that  a  welcome  was  waiting  for  him.  Adora 
seemed  to  be  fretting,  or  went  about  with  a  face  proud  or 
haughtily  cold. 

Was  it  not  for  the  sake  of  Roy  McCulloch? 


THE   SHEIL   OF   THE   BLACK   WATER    323 

At  all  events,  Aline  of  the  Silver  Braids  did  not  believe 
in  any  young  man,  who  had  "made  a  practise  o't,"  ceasing 
all  at  once  to  make  visits  of  faith  and  loyalty  and  perform- 
ing no  more  his  due  feudal  service  to  her  beloved. 

But  up  among  the  rocks  and  far  yont  the  sinister  gash 
of  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch,  Roy  kept  to  his  steadfast 
purpose.  He  had  not  ceased  to  love  Adora  Gracie. 
Having  once  begun,  men  like  Strong  Mac  do  not  cease  so 
long  as  the  chest  lifts  with  the  breath-heave. 

Roy  McCulloch  stood  often  at  his  door  and  looked  in 
one  direction.  The  Sheil  was  a  little  wooden  house  with  a 
ridiculous  chimney  of  granite  and  clay,  weathered  and  im- 
perfect, but  the  only  built  part  of  the  rude  shelter  hut. 
However,  Roy  had  banked  the  walls  up  with  stones,  and 
led  a  trench  all  around  to  draw  off  the  surface  water. 
There  was  no  window  in  the  Sheil,  save  a  little  pane  of 
glass  by  the  side  of  the  fireplace,  which  at  night  could  be 
secured  in  the  inside  by  a  stone  that  the  present  inmate 
had  brought  in  from  the  moors  and  chipped  square.  Few 
were  the  men  who  could  have  lifted  that  stone  into  posi- 
tion every  gloaming,  as  Roy  did  with  one  hand  before  he 
lit  his  lamp. 

Not  that  he  spent  much  time  in  his  bothy,  or  lay  down  to 
rest.  When  he  did  it  was  usually  after  day  had  broken 
chill  and  grey  over  the  long  backs  of  the  hills. 

His  two  collies  and  his  deerhound  had  followed  him 
from  the  House  of  Muir,  and  now  regularly  patrolled  the 
front  of  the  Sheiling  during  the  time  their  master  was 
asleep.  Ailsa,  the  senior  collie,  a  short-haired  beast  with 
quick  intelligent  eyes,  cocked  ears  and  a  head  turned 
habitually  to  the  side,  could  be  trusted  to  take  a  letter 
down  to  Sharon  at  House  of  Muir.  Roy  folded  and 
secured  the  missive  about  the  dog's  leathern  collar,  and 
then,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  House  of  Muir,  he  gave 
the  talismanic  word,  "Hame,  Ailsa!" 

Whereupon  Ailsa,  who  had  followed  every  movement 
of  her  master  with  her  eyes,  would  trot  off  across  the 
yard  with  a  sniff  of  contempt  for  her  companions  (useless 


324  STRONG  MAC 

four-legged  things  all  unfit  to  be  trusted  with  a  letter)  ! 
Then,  once  over  the  first  dyke  with  some  dignity  she  made 
a  bee-line  for  the  heights — long  whale-backed  ridges,  over 
which  the  boulders  poked  their  noses  like  Polar  bears  seen 
among  the  ice-floes — beyond  which  lay  House  of  Muir 
and  Sharon  McCulloch  waiting  for  his  son's  message. 

Thus  in  the  Sheiling  of  the  Black  Water,  Roy  McCul- 
loch fronted  his  problem,  as  once  on  a  day  far  down  by  the 
lilied  waters  of  Lowran  Adora  had  wrestled  with  hers. 

Morning  after  morning  Roy  McCulloch  looked  out 
upon  that  vast  plain  face  of  the  moors,  which  yet  for  its 
lovers  has  as  many  and  as  great  changes  as  the  most 
beautiful  lowland  country.  This  that  he  looked  upon  was 
scarred  with  cleuchs,down  which  the  water  ran  rustily  red. 
It  was  rifted  with  black  viscous  cracks  that  would  swallow 
a  man  or  a  horse  as  fast  as  any  quicksand,  if  either  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  within.  Farther  away  Roy  could  see 
the  moss-hags  pitted  like  the  scars  of  small-pox  here  and 
there  along  the  margin.  But  these  were  less  lonely,  for 
they  told  where  men  long  dead  and  gone  to  dust  had  cut 
fuel  to  warm  them  and  theirs  through  the  frosts  of  for- 
gotten winters.  All  around  him,  far  and  near,  this  world 
of  the  uplands  was  sown  with  gigantic  boulders,  grey  and 
waterworn,  as  if  scattered  from  the  pepperpot  of  some 
careless  Titan. 

Young  and  lusty,  though  a  trifle  less  self-confident  than 
he  had  been,  Roy  went  about  among  his  sheep  with  no 
other  defence  than  his  strong  arms  and  the  fists  which  no 
one  in  his  world  would  dare  to  encounter.  Only  some- 
times at  night,  he  would  take  with  him  a  stout  black- 
thorn cudgel,  with  which,  once  in  time  of  need,  he  had 
felled  a  young  bull  to  the  ground  with  one  blow. 

Adam  McQuhirr's  sheep  were  his  first  care.  But  then 
he  had  been  brought  up  among  them,  and  he  could  do 
what  work  there  was  to  do,  and  yet  have  most  of  the  day 
and  all  the  night  for  his  own  affairs.  His  eye,  skilled  as 
only  that  of  the  shepherd  is,  saw  things  naturally  in 
"scores."  If  you  had  asked  Roy  how  many  peas  were  in  a 


THE   SHEIL   OF   THE   BLACK   WATER    325 

dish,  or  kirk-folk  in  a  congregation,  he  would  instantly 
have  replied,  "Oh,  about  six  score !"  So  not  a  sheep  could 
absent  itself  from  his  colonies  without  leave,  yet  as  he 
went  his  ways  along  the  marvellous  labyrinth  of  hill 
tracks,  only  a  few  inches  wide,  worn  by  the  constant 
trafficking  of  the  little  pattering  "cloots"  of  the  black- 
faced  people,  Roy's  mind  was  on  one  thing  alone. 

And  that  one,  to  his  shame  be  it  said,  was  not 
Adora,  but  that  he  might  put  a  name  and  an  end  to  the 
dangerous  and  mysterious  Thing  which  had  twice 
brought  terror  upon  the  land,  and  had  changed  all  his 
life.  Adora  was  Adora,  but  she  was  not  for  him — now, 
or  perhaps  ever.  At  any  rate,  Roy  had  fixed  in  his  heart 
— that,  while  a  single  doubt  remained  in  any  mind  as  to 
his  guilt  in  the  matter  of  the  death  of  Alexander  Ewan, 
he  would  not  soil  any  woman's  good  name  by  bringing  it 
into  connection  with  his  own. 

"Folly—!"  said  his  father.  "Guilt—!"  cried  his  ene- 
mies. "Those  strange  unaccountable  sulks  that  afflict 
all  men — I"  thought,  but  did  not  say,  Adora  Gracie. 
But  no  one  of  these  was  even  near  the  truth,  least  of  all 
she  who  should  have  known  him  best.  Less  swift  than 
Adora,  but  far  more  enduring  and  patient,  Roy  set  him- 
self to  watch,  and,  if  need  should  be,  to  act  on  his  own  re- 
sponsibility. 

There  was  one  spot  well  out  on  the  ridges,  from  which, 
perilously  balancing  himself  on  a  "logan"  or  rocking  stone, 
Roy  could  catch  a  glimpse  beyond  the  wild  Glen  of  Pluck- 
amin,  of  the  fair  lowland  breadths  and  sleeping  waters  of 
Lowran.  And  also — what  indeed  brought  him  daily  to 
that  spot — he  could  discern  a  certain  speck  of  white  upon  a 
field  of  green,  which  was  the  cottage  at  the  loan-end  of 
Gairie,  where  Adora  dwelt.  He  liked  to  come  there  and 
look,  though  there  was  a  barrier  between  them — not  of 
wide  air  spaces,  rifted  glens  and  still  waters,  white  with 
anchored  lilies,  but  that  dread,  inexplicable  something  that 
had  wrecked  his  life  and  made  him,  while  yet  a  young 
man,  an  outcast  from  the  world. 


326  STRONG  MAC 

Somewhere  it  was  lurking  there — the  Thing.  Roy  was 
more  and  more  sure  of  it.  It  had  murdered  Alexander 
Ewan — or  at  least  slain  him.  Beast,  was  it,  or  man  be- 
come even  as  the  beasts  ?  Something,  at  least,  of  danger- 
ous and  deadly  there  was,  which  had  well-nigh  also  been 
the  death  of  Sidney  Latimer,  which  had  done  the  deed  of 
horror  upon  the  boy  Daid,  and  left  Roy  McCulloch  with- 
out self-respect  in  his  own  eyes  or  honour  untarnished  in 
the  eyes  of  others. 

It  was  small  wonder,  then,  that  with  so  much  at  stake 
Roy's  keen  eyes  perused  that  world  of  bog  and  bent  and 
heather,  under  all  changes,  by  sun  or  moon,  and  at  all 
hours  of  the  night  and  day.  But  for  long  he  did  so  with- 
out any  result. 

The  seasons  passed  in  their  order  over  the  uplands. 
The  winter  grey  and  brown  were  invaded  by  the  keen 
pale  emerald  of  the  water-plants  along  the  "flowes"  or 
dangerous  shaking  bogs.  The  heather  tipped  itself  with 
viridian,  and  by  the  edges  of  the  paths  and  in  all  sheltered 
places  the  hand  of  Spring  set  the  small  sweet  grass-blades 
thick,  ready  for  the  ewes  to  convert  into  milk  for  their 
lambs. 

But  upon  the  face  of  the  upland  world,  the  young  man's 
keen  and  wary  eyes  could  pick  up  no  speck  his  brain  could 
not  account  for.  That  black  streak  was  where  a  rush  of 
slaty  shale  had  fallen  during  the  night  from  the  heights 
of  Bennanbrack  and  scarred  the  sappy  pastures  beneath, 
always  apple-green  with  the  drip  from  the  rocks.  Yonder 
touch  of  fresh  orange  on  the  hillside  was  where  a  dog-fox, 
in  quest  of  dead  lambs,  had  begun  to  dig  himself  a  shelter. 
Roy  had  heard  him  barking  in  the  night,  his  passage  send- 
ing Ailsa  and  her  peers  into  a  short-lived  clamorous  mad- 
ness. 

But  one  morning,  in  the  time  of  the  shortest  nights, 
when  the  sun  rising  by  half-past  three  found  oftentimes 
hoar-frost  on  the  heather  and  on  the  croziers  of  the  uncoil- 
ing ferns  (and  seared  them  on  the  spot  with  his  rays  for 
sprouting  untimely),  Roy  was  returning  to  the  Sheil  of 


THE   SHEIL   OF  THE   BLACK   WATER    327 

the  Black  Water  after  a  long  night  of  fruitless  watching. 
He  had  lain  with  unshut  eye  on  the  lip  of  the  cup  which 
looks  upon  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch.  All  through  the 
hours  of  darkness  he  had  remained  there.  It  was  his 
favourite  watch-tower  on  the  moor.  Yet  not  a  hare-bell 
had  moved,  till  the  young  grouse  began  to  peep  and  chun- 
ner  about  him  in  the  thick  heather,  and  the  peewits 
awoke  to  the  fact  that  there  was  a  stranger  in  the  vicinage 
of  their  eggs,  and  forthwith  chased  him  off  their  policies 
with  clamorous  cries  and  much  delusive  flapping  of 
broken  wings. 

A  little  sick  with  hope  deferred,  Roy  was  walking 
homeward  somewhat  carelessly — more  so  than  was  his 
wont,  when  all  at  once  the  sound  of  voices  in  anger 
caused  him  to  drop  to  the  earth  with  the  swift  instinct  of 
hiding,  which  in  these  days  had  become  second  nature  to 
him. 

Who  could  be  in  that  wild  place,  at  that  early  hour, 
speaking  loudly  and  in  anger.  Roy  was  still  well  up  on 
the  ridges,  but  the  sound  certainly  came  from  above  him. 
The  plain  side  of  the  fell  spread  away  right  and  left,  bare 
even  of  sheep.  Only  at  one  particular  place  a  boiling 
cloud  of  the  same  irrepressible  peewits,  which  had  ex- 
pressed their  disapproval  of  his  presence,  circled  and 
swept  over  a  dip  in  the  long  whale-back  of  the  ridges. 

"That  is  at  the  Dhu  Loch,"  said  Roy  to  himself,  but 
speaking  half  aloud,  as  is  the  wont  of  men  who  hear  few 
voices.  And  without  stopping  to  think  of  danger  or  to 
argue  with  himself  as  to  who  might  possibly  be  in  that 
place  at  three  in  the  morning,  the  young  man  took  his 
way  uphill  with  all  the  speed  and  caution  he  was  master  of. 

Now  in  the  southern  uplands  of  Galloway*  which  still 
lie  bare,  desolate,  and  remote  as  when  Bruce  hid  in  them, 
and  will  lie  so  till  the  Day  of  Judgment,  there  are  many 
"Dhu  Lochs."  High  among  the  summits  and  out  on  the 
rugged  sides  of  the  hills  you  will  come  upon  them  un- 
expectedly. They  are  generally  oblong  in  shape,  and 
guard  the  reputation  of  being  unfathomably  deep.  The 


328  STRONG  MAC 

water  is  a  clear  peaty  brown  in  the  palm  of  the  hand,  but 
looked  at  from  above,  it  is  black  as  ink. 

It  was  to  one  of  these  that  Roy  made  his  way  as  he 
climbed.  He  had  mounted  the  heights  of  the  ridge,  so 
keeping  cautiously  to  the  left,  he  circled  about  so  that 
the  loch  would  lie  beneath  him  when  he  came  in  sight  of 
it.  Thus  he  would  "have  the  hill"  of  what  persons  soever 
were  holding  altercation  in  that  secluded  spot  at  so  un- 
timeous  an  hour. 

Cautiously  he  drew  himself  up  till  his  chin,  and  then 
his  breast  rested  on  the  verge.  The  water  was  still  hidden 
by  a  screen  of  heather  thick  and  strong.  He  continued, 
however,  to  hear  the  angry  voices,  but  they  seemed,  per- 
haps owing  to  the  elevation  at  which  he  now  lay,  to  be 
farther  away.  Roy  put  aside  the  heather  with  his  hand, 
and  looked  forth. 

Beneath  him,  near  enough,  as  it  seemed,  to  flip  a  penny 
into,  gleamed  the  Dhu  Loch,  a  sheet  of  ink,  motionless 
under  the  heavy  sky  of  the  morning.  Pale  grey  rocks  of 
coarse-grained  granite  fended  it  about,  and  at  the  farther 
end  two  men  stood  facing  one  another  with  angry  threat- 
ening gestures.  One  of  them,  the  one  with  his  face  turned 
in  Roy's  direction,  held  a  gun  in  his  hand,  which  appar- 
ently the  other  had  been  trying  to  wrest  from  him.  The 
man  with  the  face  still  hidden  from  Roy  was  of  a  strange 
aspect,  more  like  some  beast  risen  on  its  hind  legs  to  en- 
gage in  a  death-grapple  than  a  man  made  in  the  image  of 
God. 

"I  will  not — I  tell  you  I  will  not !"  cried  the  voice  which 
Roy  had  heard  before ;  "you  shall  not  have  the  gun !  We 
have  had  enough  of  blood !" 

Then  ensued  a  hoarse  growling  snarl  of  anger,  a  quick 
leap — and  lo!  the  man  with  the  gun  was  pushed  down, 
falling  on  his  back  with  the  misshapen,  inhuman  creature 
on  the  top  of  him.  Instantly  Roy  McCulloch  rose  to  his 
feet. 

"Hold  there !"  he  cried.  And  in  a  moment  he  had  pre- 
cipitated himself  down  the  steep  towards  the  farther  end 


THE   SHEIL   OF   THE   BLACK   WATER    329 

of  the  Dhu  Loch,  where,  on  a  little  green  V-shaped  pad  of 
land  the  struggle  was  fast  reaching  its  climax.  At  the 
moment  when  Roy  shouted,  a  shot  went  off,  the  white 
smoke  from  the  muzzle  of  the  piece  curling  lazily  up  in  the 
morning  air.  The  creature  took  one  swift,  frightened  look 
over  its  shoulder,  showing  a  mass  of  tangled  hair  with 
scarcely  any  sign  of  definite  features,  and  then  with  in- 
conceivable rapidity  rushed  headlong  down  the  slope. 
Roy  hastened  to  aid  the  fallen  man,  and  so  rapid  were  the 
young  man's  movements,  trained  as  he  had  been  by  weeks 
of  exercise  on  the  hills,  that  the  reek  of  the  gunpowder 
had  not  died  away  when  he  arrived  upon  the  scene.  The 
man's  face  was  a  little  turned  to  the  side  into  a  bush  of 
heather,  but  he  was  apparently  uninjured.  Indeed,  as  Roy 
raised  him  in  his  arms,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  presently 
staggered  to  his  feet,  holding  his  hand  uncertainly  to  his 
head.  The  man  was  Jonathan  Grier,  the  head-keeper  on 
the  Lowran  properties.  His  first  question  was  a  curious 
one. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  he  asked. 

"See  him,"  said  Roy,  "the  man  who  attempted  to 
murder  you — yes,  I  saw  him!" 

"Did  you  see  his  face?" 

"Unfortunately  not  with  any  clearness — it  did  not  look 
like  a  face,"  answered  Roy,  "but  if  you  are  better  I  may 
catch  him  yet !" 

The  man  gave  a  sigh  mingled  of  relief  and  pain,  and  sat 
down  again. 

"No,  stay  with  me,"  he  said;  "it  would  be  useless.  He 
runs  like  a  deer." 

But  without  waiting  his  words,  Roy  had  hastened  to  the 
top  of  the  little  gully  down  which  the  gamekeeper's  as- 
sailant had  precipitated  himself  with  such  incredible  vio- 
lence. There  were  marks  of  shod  feet  on  the  rocks  and 
gravelly  shale.  Roy's  trained  eyes  followed  the  line  of 
flight.  Already  the  man  had  put  an  almost  unbelievable 
distance  between  himself  and  his  pursuers.  Roy  made 
him  out  crossing  with  painful  care  the  pale  green  scum  of 


330  STRONG  MAC 

a  flowe.  Then,  apparently  on  all  fours  like  a  beast,  or 
rather  squat  like  a  crab  or  noxious  creeping  insect,  he  saw 
him  clambering  up  the  grey  rumble  of  slaty  debris  which 
cumbered  the  mountain  side.  The  fugitive  kept  a 
definite  direction  probably  towards  some  secret  hiding- 
place. 

Roy  descended  again  to  the  edge  of  the  Dhu  Loch. 
The  gamekeeper  had  to  some  extent  recovered  from  his 
rough  handling,  but  with  his  recovery  his  natural  evil 
temper  had  also  revived. 

"It  is  as  I  told  you,"  he  snarled,  "next  time  you  will  per- 
haps mind  your  own  business!  The  man  is  gone,  and 
there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"If  I  had  minded  my  own  business  a  few  minutes  ago," 
said  Roy,  somewhat  nettled,  "in  all  likelihood  there  would 
have  been  an  end  of  you,  Jonathan  Grier!  You  would 
have  been  a  dead  man,  and  buried  in  a  moss-hole !" 

"You  mean  you  wish  I  had  been!"  sneered  the  head- 
keeper.  "Well,  I  am  glad  it  is  not  so,  for  that  would  have 
prevented  me  from  having  the  pleasure  of  being  present 
at  your  hanging !" 

"You  did  your  best  to  hang  me  once,"  returned  Roy, 
quietly!  "it  is  not  likely  that  you  will  have  another 
chance!" 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  I  would  not  be  too  sure,"  retorted  the 
keeper.  "You  run  some  remarkable  risks,  you  McCul- 
lochs.  This  is  your  land,  I  believe,  and  even  now  it  would 
be  a  pretty  near  thing  for  you,  if  I  were  to  report  I  had 
been  attacked  and  well-nigh  murdered  under  your  very 
eyes!" 

"Yes,"  said  Roy  quickly,  "at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning." 

The  keeper  looked  up  with  a  sudden  frown.  He  under- 
stood the  allusion. 

"I  have  a  right  to  be  upon  the  moors  at  any  hour,"  he 
said,  sullenly  enough.  "I  do  not  need  to  ask  your  leave. 
And  more  than  that,  my  friend,  it  has  been  told  to  me  that 
you  have  been  manifesting  a  great  interest  in  our  Lowran 


THE   SHEIL  OF   THE   BLACK  WATER    331 


properties.     I  will  thank  you  to  keep  away  from  the 
Cleuch  of  Pluckamin — !" 

"And  also  from  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch,  where 
your  master  was  almost  murdered  ?"  queried  Roy,  meet- 
ing him  eye  to  eye. 

The  gamekeeper  muttered  something  like  an  oath,  but 
for  a  moment  found  nothing  articulate  to  reply.  When  he 
spoke  again,  it  was  in  a  more  reasonable  tone. 

"It  would  be  as  well  if  we  could  both  agree  to  say 
nothing  of  this/'  he  said ;  "it  would  only  bring  up  old  con- 
troversies, which  you  of  all  men  have  most  cause  to  wish 
forgotten." 

"Who  was  the  man?"  demanded  Roy,  suddenly. 

The  gamekeeper  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemp- 
tuously. 

"Oh,  some  gipsy  tramp,  doubtless,  or  Irish  rascal !"  he 
said ;  "there  are  too  many  of  them  about.  It  is  the  time  of 
year  when  they  hide  away  on  the  muirs  in  order  to  plunder 
the  lowlands,  and  live  on  the  whaups'  eggs  between 
whiles !  You  know  that  as  well  as  I !" 

"At  least  I  have  seen  none  of  them !"  said  Roy,  calmly, 
"and  I  would  ask  one  more  question,  if  you  will  give  me 
permission." 

"Ask  away!" 

"What  did  you  mean  when  you  cried  out,  'I  will  not,  I 
tell  you.  You  shall  not  have  the  gun!  We  have  had 
enough  of  blood  ?" 

Turning  a  shade  paler  and  setting  his  mouth,  the  game- 
keeper regarded  Roy  fixedly,  as  strong  men  do  when  they 
lie. 

"I  never  said  that!"  he  said.  "I  never  heard  any  one 
else  say  it  either !" 

"I  heard  you  and  knew  your  voice !"  Roy  persisted. 

"It  is  easy  to  hear  what  you  want  to  hear,"  said  the 
gamekeeper;  "we  are  not  all  so  bloody-minded  as  you 
McCullochs,  who  think  of  nothing  else !" 

And  without  a  "Thank  you"  for  Roy's  timely  inter- 
vention or  even  so  much  as  a  "Good  day,"  Jonathan  Grier 


332  STRONG  MAC 

took  his  gun  and  strode  away  to  the  south,  keeping  care- 
fully to  the  open  crown  of  the  moorland,  so  that  none 
could  approach  him  unseen.  He  had  loaded  and  primed 
his  gun  before  he  went. 

And  Roy  McCulloch  went  back  to  the  Sheil  of  the 
Black  Water,  his  mind  filled  with  a  new  and  surprising 
turmoil  of  thoughts.  What  had  he  learned  ?  What  did  it 
mean?  Was  the  mystery  now  more  or  less  mysterious 
after  what  he  had  been  witness  of  upon  the  hills  by  the 
Dhu  Loch? 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

THE   HEART   OF   ADORA. 

THINGS  had  on  the  whole  turned  out  much  as  people 
had  expected.  In  spite  of  the  warning  he  had  received, 
in  spite  of  the  narrow  shave  he  had  had  of  it  at  the  assizes, 
Roy  McCulloch  had  not  taken  to  reputable  courses.  He 
lived  (so  they  said)  in  a  lonely  sheiling  among  the  hills,  a 
mere  shelter  for  fodder,  that  had  been  run  up  many  years 
ago  on  a  "led"  farm  which  marched  with  his  father's 
property. 

A  dreadful  thing,  surely,  said  the  clash  of  the  country 
thus  to  leave  "an  aged  parent"  alone  in  that  solitary  place ! 
But  at  House  of  Muir,  needless  to  say,  there  was  no  such 
thought. 

The  McCullochs  lived  within  themselves,  self-contained, 
self-content,  asking  no  man's  opinion  upon  their  actions, 
and  sharing  theirs  with  none.  And  the  elder  McCulloch, 
whatever  his  thoughts  may  have  been  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
his  son's  proceedings,  was  too  old  a  campaigner  to  care 
whether  he  went  or  stayed.  He  granted  that  full  liberty 
to  others  which  through  life  he  had  so  consistently  claimed 
for  himself. 

The  haunting  terror,  which  for  months  had  brooded 
over  the  hills  and  valleys  of  middle  Galloway,  little  by  little 
died  away.  Already  Sandy  Ewan's  slaying  had  become 
almost  like  a  tale  of  long  ago.  Confidence  was  gradually 
re-established.  Lovers  again  met  in  tryst  at  stiles  into 
cornfields  or  ran  the  risk  of  taking  cold  under  the  alder- 
trees  on  the  meadow  edges.  It  was  no  longer  considered  a 
dangerous  thing  to  go  alone  to  the  byre  for  the  cow-milk- 


334  STRONG  MAC 

ing.    The  farm  lads  were  not  so  particular  to  have  com- 
pany when  they  entered  the  stables  to  "supper  the  horse/' 

Yet  there  were  some  who  remained  alert — Roy  McCul- 
loch  being  the  chief  of  these,  in  his  lonely  Sheil  of  Loch 
Dee,  where  he  was  left  in  charge  of  Adam  McQuhirr's 
sheep  on  the  Upper  Airie — the  farm  which,  after  the  death 
of  Sandy  Ewan,  Aline's  brother  had  taken  up. 

Also  a  certain  deformed  boy,  now  recovered  from  his 
"accident"  and  beginning  to  run  about,  among  the 
brackeny  knowes  and  round  the  craggy  hummocks  at  the 
back  of  the  cot  house  of  Airie,  had  not  forgotten — much 
less  forgiven.  Few  in  these  days  saw  Daid  McRobb  face 
to  face.  Since  he  had  been  taken  to  the  Circuit  Court  of 
Drumfern  something  seemed  to  have  weakened  in  his 
head.  Even  to  Adam  and  Aline  he  was  never  quite  the 
same  again — as  clever  certainly,  but  now  shy  as  a  wild 
wood-thing,  ever  ready  to  take  to  a  tree  or  dart  among  the 
bushes,  where  he  would  lie,  effaced  and  lost  to  any  human 
sight  just  as  it  pleased  him. 

Daid  had  long  ago  abandoned  the  garret  chamber  at 
Aline's,  where  he  had  lain  for  months.  But,  whereas  since 
the  assizes  he  could  no  more  be  depended  upon  at  meal- 
time in  Aline's  dainty  parlour,  food  was  conveyed  to  him 
three  times  a  day  in  the  barn  of  the  Gairie  farm.  At  first 
Adam's  wife  had  been  frightened,  and  had  forbidden  hi* 
admittance  within  the  stack-yard  at  all.  But  when  she 
observed  that  this  made  little  difference  to  Daid,  who 
would  just  as  lief  climb  in  at  a  wicket,  or  lie  hid  among 
the  piled  straw  or  under  the  machinery  of  the  thrashing 
mill — especially  when  her  son,  Roderick,  began  to  play 
with  curious  wooden  guns  and  cross-bows  which  had  been 
made  for  him  by  Daid,  her  opinions  changed,  and  now  she 
would  even  take  out  to  the  Dumbie,  with  her  own  hands, 
his  morning  platter  of  porridge  or  set  apart  for  him  in  the 
milkhouse  one  of  the  great  bowls  of  curds  which  he  loved. 

It  was  sometimes  eerie  work  enough,  however,  to  take 
such  things  to  the  barn — especially  in  the  gloaming,  when 
the  sheaves  had  turned  a  deep  brownish  orange,  when 


THE  HEART  OF  ADORA  335 

the  shadowy  beams  overhead  were  purple  black,  and  the 
door  which  opened  out  into  the  orchard  gave  upon  a  sea 
of  blue  swimming  haze. 

"Daid !"  you  would  cry,  with  the  bowl  in  one  hand  and 
the  fresh  supply  of  oat-cakes  in  the  other,  warm  and  crisp 
from  the  fire.  He  to  whom  you  spoke  could  not  answer 
you  in  words. 

"Daid — come  out,  good  Daid !" 

Then  if  the  maimed  boy  were  in  good  humour  and 
nothing  fretted,  soft  as  a  bat's  wing  fluttering  against 
your  cheek  in  the  twilight,  a  dark  form  would  appear  by 
your  side  without  a  sound  or  a  rustle.  A  hand  would 
press  your  arm  in  unspoken  thankfulness  and,  silent  as  a 
shadow  shifting,  the  boy  would  disappear  as  he  had  come. 

But  it  was  otherwise  if  anything  had  ruffled  him  during 
the  day,  and  any  work  done  about  his  hiding-place  tended 
to  drive  him  crazy.  At  the  sound  of  your  calling,  there 
would  ensue,  first  silence,  and  then,  if  you  persisted,  a 
rustling  as  of  rats  among  the  straw  of  the  great  shadowy 
mow.  If  you  called  a  third  time,  there  would  arise  from 
you  knew  not  where  the  strangest,  faintest,  unearthliest 
whinny  of  mingled  protest  and  discontent,  which,  though 
you  were  brave  as  Wallace  and  of  stature  like  unto  Sam- 
son, sufficed  to  make  you  set  down  the  bowl  as  quickly  as 
possible  upon  the  earthen  floor,  and  take  yourself  off  to 
the  friendly  ingle-side  of  the  farm  house,  brisk  with  the 
hither-and-thither  of  kitchen  traffic,  and  human  with  the 
hum  of  gossip. 

To  this  rule,  however,  there  were  two  exceptions.  In 
his  worst  moods  Daid  would  run  like  a  dog  to  Adora's 
most  distant  call,  and  when  none  could  find  him  about  the 
outhouses  of  the  Gairie,  his  sturdy  protector,  Adam  Mc- 
Quhirr,  by  whose  grace  he  remained  where  he  was,  would 
go  out,  and  with  a  lusty  hail  of  "Daid,  lad,  come  this 
meenite  to  your  parritch,  or  by  my  faith  111  be  aff  wi'  ye 
the  morn's  mornin'  to  the  Red  Judge !" 

Whereat,  though  he  had  lain  safe  in  cache  all  day  long, 
Daid  would  instantly  appear,  sitting  astride  on  some  out- 


336  STRONG  MAC 

house  rigging  or  coming  up  through  the  shadowy  orchard 
trees  like  a  gigantic  crab. 

"Daft?  Weel,  maybe,"  the  farmer  of  Gairie  would  say 
in  answer  to  some  protestation  against  harbouring  such 
"vermin"  about  his  place,  "daft — but  no  that  verra  daft ! 
There's  mony  i'  this  pairish  wi'  their  names  on  the  kirk- 
roll  wha  micht  learn  a  lesson  f rae  puir  mishandled  Daid ! 
An*  sae  lang  as  the  craitur  does  nae  ill,  and  as  lang  as  the 
breath  o'  life  bides  in  Aidam  McQuhirr,  the  hairmless  bit 
thing  will  no  want  either  bit  or  sup,  an  auld  coat  to  cover 
his  nakedness,  and  twa-three  corn  sacks  to  keep  him  warm 
amang  the  strae  o'  the  barn.  And  as  for  the  farm-lasses 
bein'  feared  to  gang  their  gaits  for  Daid — if  nane  o'  the 
hizzies  gang  ony  waur  gate  than  Daid  will  lead  them,  there 
will  be  fewer  mistrystin'  jobs  afore  the  Lowran  Kirk  Ses- 
sion, I  wot!  Hearken  ye  to  that,  ye  hempies,  it's  your 
maister  that's  speakin' !" 

Thus  there  was  for  a  time  great  quietness  over  the 
parish.  The  troubles  of  the  past  eighteen  months  had 
well-nigh  been  forgotten,  except  perhaps  when  the  herds 
forgathered  on  the  hill,  and  passed  the  news  smoking  their 
pipes  at  some  dyke-back. 

But  as  has  been  said,  there  were  two  who  knew  that  this 
peace  was  only  on  the  surface.  Roy  McCulloch  continued 
to  dwell  in  the  lone  sheiling  by  the  lochside.  Every  night 
he  took  his  way  across  the  heather,  and  always  in  one  di- 
rection— towards  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch.  And  the 
reason  why  Daid  slept  so  much  in  the  barn  during  the  day 
was  that  he  too  kept  silent  and  sleepless  watch  all  night, 
and  every  night,  about  the  dwelling  of  Adam  McQuhirr, 
and  especially  about  the  cottage  at  the  end  of  the  Gairie 
loaning. 

These  two  knew,  what  most  had  forgotten,  that  the 
Terror  still  walked  in  darkness  upon  the  moors  of  Lowran 
and  Bennanbrack.  They  kept  watch  and  ward,  apart  from 
each  other  and  unknown  to  each  other.  Some  might  be 
troubled  with  a  passing  suspicion,  which  was  as  easily  ex- 
plained. For  instance,  when  Sharon  McCulloch  lost  an 


THE  HEART  OF  ADORA  337 

occasional  sheep,  he  loaded  his  shot-gun  and  set  it  behind 
the  door,  or  he  took  a  walk  with  it  under  his  arm  up  the 
waterside  and  among  the  heathery  knolls  where  his  flock 
was  grazing  on  the  short  succulent  hill  grasses,  or,  lower, 
with  their  heads  down  and  only  their  rumps  showing 
among  the  pretty  waterside  meadows. 

But  Sharon  saw  nothing,  save  on  one  occasion  his  son 
Roy,  who  came  over  the  dyke  like  a  deer  whom  the  hunters 
pursue,  and  whose  sharp  signal  whistle  caused  his  father 
to  throw  up  his  gun  just  in  time  to  turn  away  a  charge  of 
shot  that  might  have  spoilt  Roy's  dyke- jumping  for  ever. 

Sometimes,  also,  Adam  McQuhirr  grumbled  that  he  had 
lost  a  sheep  or  two,  but  these  were  at  his  lower  farm,  and 
not  among  the  flocks  which  were  committed  to  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch's  care.  Nevertheless,  there  were  "Egypt  folk" 
about  to  bear  the  blame,  besides  ex-soldiers  returning 
from  the  wars,  and  harvesters  from  Ireland,  the  strag- 
gling advance  guard  of  the  great  August  stream  of  scythe- 
men  going  towards  the  English  harvests. 

"There  is  no  saying  I"  Adam  truly  remarked,  "what  is 
at  the  bottom  o't!  Ye  see,  there's  a  natural  kindness 
atween  a  gaun  body's  hungry  belly  and  an  orra  sheep  aff 
the  hill!  We'll  be  findin'  the  skin  an'  ribs  o'  the  puir 
beasts  in  some  moss-hole,  I'se  warrant.  But  bless  me,  in 
my  day  I  hae  seen  a  man's  neck  in  danger  afore  my  Lord 
Justiciary,  and  it  shallna  be  for  the  sake  o'  a  bit  wether  or 
twa  that  Aidam  McQuhirr  will  be  the  means  o'  bringin' 
ony  mither's  son  to  yon  awesome  place !" 

Meantime,  while  these  things,  covert  and  overt,  drew  to 
a  head  in  different  parts  of  the  parish  of  Lowran,  Strong 
Mac  lived  alone  with  the  wild  birds  and  the  sheep,  nour- 
ishing his  soul  upon  the  Bible,  the  poems  of  Burns,  the 
works  of  Shakespeare,  and  a  curious  book  called  "The 
Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,"  by  an  author  of  whom  Roy  had 
never  heard,  but  whom  on  one  page  he  took  for  a  genius 
and  on  the  next  for  an  idiot. 

And  Adora  Gracie  abode  in  the  cottage  with  her  father 
and  Aline.  The  girl  was  in  a  strange  frame  of  mind — 


338  STRONG  MAC 

fretful  with  others,  sometimes  even  with  Aline,  inclined  to 
snap  her  father  into  silence  when  he  began  his  intermi- 
nable moralisings.  Adora  was  sick,  that  was  clear,  and 
there  was  none  to  diagnose  the  trouble  that  was  upon  her. 

Certainly  she  could  not  do  it  herself.  Aline,  with  all  a 
gentle  woman's  penetration,  lacked  experience,  and  was 
equally  at  fault.  Adora  tried  a  book — several  books.  But 
with  her  clearness  of  vision  and  analytical  power,  she 
had  not  Roy's  stolid  masculine  endurance  of  the  dead  drift 
of  days,  the  useless  reduplication  of  hours  without  object 
or  solace,  save  the  slow  boom  of  the  spinning  wheel.  She 
had  no  use  for  these  things  now.  Her  soul  took  no 
pleasure  in  them. 

Even  the  prospect  outside  offended  her — the  same  dull 
humps  and  hillocks  to  be  seen  from  the  door — the  gleam 
of  silvery  water,  the  lilies  white  and  golden  in  the 
little  cove  into  which  the  Pluckamin  Water  brought  down 
the  granite  sand,  the  blue  barrow  of  Ben  Gairn  asleep 
on  the  horizon.  It  might  be  a  fair  place,  yet  to  the  heart 
of  the  sick  girl,  its  very  beauty  was  an  offence.  Surely 
after  all  her  labour,  she  had  not  deserved  to  be  left  thus. 
She  had  broken  prison  bands.  Roy  McCulloch  was  free. 
Sidney  Latimer  had  done  her  will.  Her  calculations  had 
met  to  a  hairsbreadth.  All  had  gone  as  she  had  hoped,  and 
yet  she  was  not  content.  Had  she  not  argued  the  matter 
out  ?  Had  she  not  seen  the  end  from  the  beginning  ?  Did 
she  not  resolve  that  she  would  keep  Sidney  Latimer  at  a 
distance  during  the  voyage,  and  set  Roy  McCulloch  in  his 
own  place  upon  her  return  ?  She  had  set  out  to  prove  to 
these  two  that  there  was  something  better,  something 
higher  than  what  was  called  love — the  friendship  between 
men  and  women  which  is  able  to  say,  "Thus  far  shalt  thou 
come  and  no  farther,  and  here  shall  thy  proud  swelling 
waves  be  stayed!" 

Though  she  did  not  know  it,  Adora  was  working  out 
an  old,  old  sum,  and  it  was  pride  that  had  made  her  go 
wrong  from  the  start.  For  love  is  humility.  It  is  not 
heralded  by  drums  or  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  Seldom, 


THE  HEART  OF  ADORA  339 

even,  does  it  come  with  observation.  Love  in  the  heart  of 
man  or  woman  is  not  magnificent,  imperial,  all-conquerant. 
Neither,  on  the  other  hand,  can  it  be  logically  apportioned 
beforehand,  resolved  upon  with  exactitude,  fenced  about 
with  clipped  hedges  and  formal  pales.  Least  of  all  (as 
old  Francis  Roos,  in  his  "version  of  the  Psalms  in  metre," 
hath  it),  is  love  to  be  treated 

"...     like  the  horse  or  mule 

Which  do  not  understand, 
Whose   mouth,    lest   they   come   near  to   thee, 
A  bridle  must  command." 

The  door  of  love's  palace  is  low.    And  those  who  enter 
there  must  go  upon  their  knees. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 
"HOLD  YOUR  TONGUE,  WOMAN!" 

ALINE  saw  the  girl's  trouble,  and  her  nature,  softly 
persistent  and  clinging  like  her  native  mists,  reached  out 
to  find  a  remedy. 

Comfort  more  than  comparative  had  come  to  the  little 
house  at  the  loaning-end.  Captain  Ebenezer's  steadfast 
resolution  to  receive  no  farthing  of  passage  money  had 
kept  intact  the  proceeds  of  the  schoolhouse  sale.  As  of 
yore,  Adora's  industry  as  a  spinner  was  the  pride  of  the 
village.  Work  flowed  in,  and  it  was  one  of  Adam  Me- 
Quhirr's  crosses  that  she  would  take  from  him  no  more 
than  the  statutory  price.  But,  in  a  hundred  ways, 
laboriously  kept  secret,  the  good  man  saw  that  the  differ- 
ence was  more  than  made  up  to  Aline,  and  through  her 
to  Adora.  , 

Nevertheless,  Aline's  mind,  anxiously  on  the  track  of  her 
friend's  unhappiness,  traversed  the  whole  field  of  (un- 
wedded)  human  experience  in  search  of  a  cause.  But  how 
should  she  succeed  when  Adora  herself  had  failed  ? 

The  truth  was,  that  of  a  long  season  Adora  had  at- 
tempted the  impossible.  A  man,  when  love  is  on  pro- 
bation, may  for  a  time  remain  in  a  pleasing  state  of  un- 
certainty as  to  which  of  two  girls  he  is  in  love  with.  But 
from  the  start  a  woman  must  make  no  mistake,  or  there 
will  be  trouble.  For  her  there  are  no  provisional  allot- 
ments, no  first  offender's  act,  no  essays  without  prejudice. 


"HOLD    YOUR    TONGUE,  WOMAN!"        341 

That  is,  for  a  good  woman,  to  whom  love  is  not  all  self- 
love,  and  whose  idea  of  sacrifice  is  riot  that  others  must 
be  sacrificed  to  herself. 

But  Adora  had  frankly  attempted  the  impossible.  With- 
out the  least  coquetry  she  had  tried  to  treat  Roy  and 
Sidney  with  an  absolute  equality.  Nay,  more  and  worse, 
she  had  attempted  to  keep  them  equal  in  her  own  thought 
— a  thing  which  no  woman  can  do  for  a  day  when  two 
men  are  in  the  balance-scales  of  her  favour. 

Nevertheless,  the  girl  had  a  heart,  and  the  time  was 
coming  when  that  heart  would  take  the  reins  from  her 
head,  and  carry  her  whither  it  would.  But,  though  near, 

the  time  was  not  yet. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

It  was  the  centre  of  many  things,  that  cot  by  the  way- 
side, white  and  quiet,  Aline' s  innate  delicacy  showing  even 
in  the  creepers  upon  the  walk*1  .In  the  "ben"  room  an 
old  man  was  reading — in  the  "but"  a"  gij^  spinning  and 
spinning  on  with  a  far-a-way  look  in  her  eye$."'<6he  was 
thinking  as  she  spun.  Aline  of  the  Silver  Hair  went'/o 
and  fro,  thinking  also.  The  floors,  "but"  and  "ben,"  were 
scoured  like  a  dining-table.  The  very  flat-irons  and  "gauf- 
fres"  for  Aline's  sweet  box-plaited  "mutches"  shone  like 
jewellery  on  the  walls.  Through  the  windows  came  in  the 
peace  of  valley  and  the  spread  of  hill.  There  was  calm  in 
the  sunshine  about  the  cottage  of  Gairie,  a  Sabbath  rest 
in  the  air. 

Yet  the  universe  of  Lowran,  its  strange  histories  and 
tragedies  centred  and  circled  about  that  little  home  at  the 
end  of  the  Gairie  loaning,  where,  to  all  outward  appearing, 
Peace  thus  dwelt  as  of  vested  right. 

It  was  the  deepest  drowse  of  the  summer  afternoon — 
July  from  verge  to  verge.  The  little  house  sat  as  sweetly 
sunning  itself  among  its  flower  plots  and  clamberingwhite 
Ayrshire  roses,  as  if  it  too  were  wont  to  be  visited  as  only 
a  larger  honey-bloom  by  the  wandering  bee-folk  on  their 
quests.  Two  women  came  round  the  turn  of  the  Great 
House  avenue,  and  so  down  the  brae  in  the  direction  of 


342  STRONG  MAC 

Lowran.  But  they  had  not  the  intention  of  entering  the 
village.  Their  path  led  through  the  rustling  green  silences 
of  the  policies,  and  so  ultimately  in  the  direction  of  the 
Gairie. 

As  they  came  they  talked  one  to  the  other. 

"It  is  a  hard  thing  for  a  lad's  mither  to  do,"  said  the 
Lady  of  Lowran  to  her  companion,  "hard  indeed,  Purs- 
lane. You  that  have  neither  kith  nor  kin — neither  an- 
cient name  nor — " 

Purslane  stirred  uneasily,  sighed  vaguely,  and  laid  this 
away  with  all  the  other  spurns  that  patient  merit  of  the 
unworthy  takes.  She  did  not  even  answer — a  rare  virtue 
with  Purslane. 

"But  they  tell  me — I  have  it  from  the  best  authority, 
that  Balgracie  is  a  fine  place,  and  a  brave  stocking-foot  of 
siller  the  auld  laird  had.  They  say,  too,  that  the  young 
laird  made  mony  a  pickle — no  that  he  was  sae  muckle 
younger  than  yoursel',  Purslane !  But  this  was  the  way 
o't — the  way  that  sic  a  wealth  o'  siller  cam'  into  the  Hoose 
o'  Balgracie,  and  the  way  too  that  the  Balgracies  are  some 
far  off  kin  to  oursel's,  the  Latimers  o'  Lowran !" 

Whereat  Purslane  sighed,  a  little  wearily.  She  had 
heard  the  "way  o't"  so  often  during  these  last  days,  with 
all  the  pros  and  cons  discussed  and  digressed  upon  a 
dozen  times  over.  But  her  mistress  was  accustomed  to 
deal  faithfully  with  all  the  world,  except  only  her  son,  and 
now,  she  noticed  at  once  her  companion's  unwillingness  to 
listen. 

"Of  course,"  she  added  with  a  certain  tartness,  "it 
couldna  be  expectit!  It's  only  a  woman  o'  family  that 
cares  to  keep  mind  o'  sic  things.  But  ye  are  paid  to  listen, 
and  hearken  ye  shall.  In  the  auld  days  there  was  a  Bal- 
gracie o'  Balgracie  that  married  wi'  a  Latimer  o'  Lowran 
— weel,  maybe  no  exactly  the  Lowran  stock,  but  the 
Threep-ma-thrapple  branch — whilk,  ye  ken,  are  nearly  as 
guid.  For  it  was  Latimer  o'  Threep-ma-thrapple  that  gied 
the  second  Chairles  a  leg  up  the  tree  after  Worcester  Day, 
and  wha  has  the  preevilege  o'  haudin'  the  king's  stirrup  to 


"HOLD    YOUR    TONGUE,  WOMAN!"        343 

this  day  ilka  time  his  Majesty  gangs  by  Three-ma-thrap- 
ple  liggate.  And  the  last  wha  gat  the  leg  up  was  that 
blessed  and  high-michty  potentate,  the  present  Prince  Re- 
gent. He  was  gaun  by  Threep-ma-thrapple  on  his  errands 
(some  o'  them  gye  queer  yins),  and  there  was  oor  cousin 
Threep  at  his  yett.  Sae  he  asked  the  prince  to  come  in 
and  taste  a  drappie.  And  his  Highness,  seeing  Threep's 
dochter,  a  bonny  bit  thing,  juikin'  ahint  his  shoulder, 
thought  that  maybe  he  micht  do  waur.  And  when  he  was 
ready  to  gang  on  again,  there  was  Threep  to  haud 
his  royal  stirrup,  according  to  the  auld  tenure  o'  his  an- 
cestors' lands.  But  when  Threep,  wha,  ye  ken,  is  roond- 
bellied  like  aYester  pear,  an'  gye  short  i'  the  puff,  gied  the 
hoise  to  put  his  Majesty — his  Highness,  I  mean,  i'  the 
saddle,  the  Prince  Regent,  wha  is  nae  licht  wecht,  brak' 
through  and  cam'  ker-whallop  to  the  grund !  And  ere  he 
gat  gathered  up,  a1  his  lords  cam'  rinnin'  to  help  him,  and 
there  was  puir  Threep  standin'  wi'  his  mooth  open  like  a 
roan  pipe  in  a  drought,  no  kennin'  what  to  do !  And  says 
his  Highness  to  him,  says  he,  'Laird  o'  Threep-ma-thrap- 
ple, if  your  ancestor  had  gi'en  mine  nae  better  a  leg  up  on 
the  day  o'  Worcester  fecht,  it's  little  likely  that  I  wad  hae 
been  here  this  day !  Fetch  me  a  kitchen  chair !'  " 

"Though  guidness  kens  what  he  had  to  do  wi'  the 
maitter !  For  there's  precious  few  draps  o'  Stuart  bluid  in 
him,  or  ony  amang  the  crew  o'  them !" 

To  this  interesting  family  reminiscence  Purslane  had 
appeared  to  listen  with  her  usual  attention.  It  was  not 
more  'than  the  five  hundredth  time  she  had  heard  it,  and 
she  would  dearly  have  liked  to  ask  at  what  date  his  Royal 
Highness,  the  Prince  Regent,  was  in  Scotland,  but  instead 
she  only  interjected  a  question  designed  to  bring  Mrs. 
Latimer's  scattering  ideas  to  a  point. 

"And  sae  ye  hae  made  up  your  mind  that  Sidney  shall 
mairry  the  Dominie's  lass?" 

This  was  said  sadly  and  dispassionately,  with  the  air  of 
one  washing  his  hands  of  innocent  blood  in  the  sight  of  the 
people.  The  old  Lady  of  Lowran  tossed  her  head. 


344  STRONG  MAC 

"Purslane,"  she  said,  irritably,  "it's  little  that  ye  ken 
aboot  the  anxieties  o'  a  mither,  wi'  a  son  o'  auld  descent 
and  landed  estate,  wide  in  acres,  but  sair  shrunken  in  siller 
an'  consequence,  though  by  nae  faut  o'  his — !" 

"Then,  I  tak'  it,"  rasped  Purslane,  "that  Sidney  Latimer 
o'  Lowran  is  to  mairry  the  dochter  o'  the  drucken  dominie 
wha  was  pitten  oot  o'  his  place  for  bein'  incapacitate  be- 
fore the  Presbytery.  Weel,  mistress,  I'm  but  a  puir  body, 
I  ken,  and,  as  ye  say,  hae  nae  landed  estate.  But  I  hae 
my  ain  proper  pride,  and  I  wad  raither  see  my  son,  if  I 
had  yin,  bendin'  his  back  in  a  ditch — aye  or  wi'  a  musket 
ower  his  shooder,  mairchin'  again'  the  enemies  o'  his 
country,  than  that  ony  bairn  o'  mine  should  sae  sair  de- 
mean himsel'  to  mate  beneath  his  degree !" 

This  fixed  in  the  moment  the  determination  of  the  Lady 
of  Lowran. 

"Purslane,"  she  cried,  "ye  are  an  insolent  ill-bred 
woman,  and  as  soon  as  ever  we  enter  the  door  o'  Lowran 
Hoose,  ye  shall  get  your  fee  and  your  leave !  The  maid  is 
a  guid  maid.  Naebody  has  a  word  to  say  again'  her.  She 
it  was  that,  o'  her  ain  accord,  thinking  liersel'  to  be  but 
what  she  seemed  to  be,  forbade  my  son  the  door,  and  has 
keepit  him  to  his  word — what  think  ye  o'  that?" 

"What  think  I  o'  that?"  cried  Purslane,  sarcastically,  "I 
think  that,  in  my  young  days,  that  was  the  very  way  to 
mak'  a  man  think  three  times  mair  o'  a  woman  than  he  did 
before!  But  I'm  auld,  and  I  am  stupit  (or  ye  gie  me  the 
name  o't),  and  maybe  lassies  that  cunningly  flout  and  men 
that  foolishly  follow  are  changed  since  then.  Hech,  sirs, 
it  will  be  a  sair  change !  But  withoot  doot  ye  ken  best ! 
Ye  are  the  mistress,  and  wha  else  should  ken  if  ye  dinna !" 

"Purslane,  the  like  o'  ye  for  impertinence  I  never  did 
see,"  cried  the  old  lady.  "I  forbid  ye  to  speak  o'  my 
dochter-in-law — in  ony  siccan  a  fashion — !" 

"Bide  a  wee,"  said  Purslane,  mildly  persistent ;  "surely 
ye  will  gie  the  lass  the  chance  of  sayin'  'No !'  But  maybe 
that  is  altered,  too !  There's  heaps  o'  new  fashions  since 
you  and  me  were  young !" 


"HOLD    YOUR    TONGUE,  WOMAN!"        345 

Mrs.  Latimer  disdained  this,  her  mind  being  occupied 
with  higher  things. 

"And  ye  wad  venture  to  suppose  that  a  maid  wi'  siccan 
a  reputation,  and  clever,  that  has  ga'en  a'  the  road  to  Spain 
to  bring  a  puir  lad  hame  to  his  mither  and  his  duty — and 
after  bidin'  wi'  him  in  the  same  ship  for  weeks,  will  no 
mairry  him  when  he  speers  her !  Certes,  she'll  be  prood 
to  get  the  chance !" 

"Aye,"  said  Purslane,  drily,  "she  fetched  him  hame, 
truly — but  it  was  to  save  another  man's  neck !" 

The  old  lady  stamped  her  foot,  and,  catching  her  com- 
panion by  the  arm,  shook  her  with  a  senile  outbreak  of 
temper. 

"Hear  ye/'  she  cried,  "gang  hame  wi'  ye  and  bide  till 
I  come  to  pay  ye  your  wage.  I'll  hae  nae  mair  to  do  wi' 
a  woman  that  can  think  siccan  thochts.  Back  wi'  ye !" 

"No  a  step,  mistress !"  said  the  indomitable  Purslane. 
"Mistress  Latimer,  ye  are  no  fit  to  bring  hame  a  dozen  o' 
hens'  eggs  in  a  basket,  let  alane  a  wife  to  your  son! 
When  ye  gang  hame,  I  will  gang.  Neither  later  nor 
earlier !  And  after  that  we  can  talk  o'  feein',  and  leavin' !" 

The  Lady  of  Lowran,  recognising  the  futility  of  pro- 
longing the  discussion  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  cottage 
of  Aline  McQuhirr,  contented  herself  with  saying,  "Now, 
hear  ye  this,  Rebecca  Purslane,  ye  hae  had  your  say.  I 
hae  borne  your  ill-regulated  tongue,  speaking  concerning 
things  that  ye  ken  naething  aboot.  Noo,  either  bide  here 
by  the  dyke-side,  or,  if  ye  come  ben  where  I  am  to  speak 
my  mind  for  my  son's  honour  and  happiness,  hold  your 
tongue,  woman!" 

And  as  she  turned  to  tap  genteelly  within  Aline's  rose- 
shaded  porch,  be  it  recorded  that  the  obedient  Purslane 
took  her  mistress  at  her  word,  and  held  her  tongue  with 
the  tips  of  her  finger  and  thumb,  while,  under  the  pretext 
of  adjusting  her  dress,  her  feet  beneath  the  widow's  weeds 
danced  a  little  contumelious  dance,  quite  unbecoming  her 
years  and  general  deportment. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

BALGRACIE  OF   BALGRACIE. 

"MADAME,  your  servant !  Will  you  be  pleased  to  enter?" 
Aline's  greeting  chill,  yet  full  of  the  simple  equality 
which  a  consciousness  of  good  family  lends  to  the  de- 
meanour, was  mixed  with  just  the  right  amount  of  Scot- 
tish deference  to  the  feudal  superior  on  whose  lands  she 
lived.  Still  there  was  a  ring  of  defiance  in  the  old  lady's 
voice,  which  passed  unnoticed,  save  by  Adora,  who  was 
listening  from  within  to  the  unwonted  sound  of  visitors  at 
the  cottage  door. 

The  girl  was  at  her  work  as  they  entered.  The  window 
stood  open,  and  the  air  came  pleasantly  off  the  water. 
Aline  had  been  about  to  make  the  tea,  and  the  lid  of  the 
caddy  was  raised.  "The  Mortal  Sin"  was  what  Adora 
called  it.  For  upon  some  consciences,  tea  bought  at  a 
price  above  the  means  of  their  possessors  can  weigh 
heavier  than  all  the  law  and  the  prophets.  Blessed  in  the 
last  days  shall  these  be.  And  Aline  carried  her  tea  caddy, 
honestly  and  simply,  "to  a  Throne  of  Grace,"  as  some- 
thing which  might  affect  her  eternal  future. 

"Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." 
Donald  Gracie  was  supposed  to  be  reading,  but  he  had 
dozed  over  with  the  easily  coming,  easily  disturbed  sleep 
of  old  age.  The  steady  whoo-whoo  of  Adora's  spinning 
wheel  was  the  music  that  soothed  him,  and  he  awoke  from 
dreams  of  walking  hand  in  hand  with  one  long  dead,  by 
the  rivers  of  water.  It  was  beside  the  Water  of  Leith  that 
he  and  she  had  walked,  that  landlady's  daughter  who  had 


BALGRACIE  OF  BALGRACIE  347 

cost  him  so  much.  But  in  his  dream  the  frowsy  froth  of 
Canonmills  again  ran  crystal-clear  over  sands  of  silver, 
the  trout  swam  red-speckled  in  the  amber  pools,  while 
from  the  green  bank  they  watched  them  hand  in  hand,  he 
and  the  landlady's  daughter — over  whose  head  the  twenty- 
year-old  turf  was  growing. 

Small  wonder  that  Donald  Gracie  woke  up  with  a  start, 
or  that  the  book  slipped  from  his  knee.  He  was  young 
Donald  Balgracie  again,  and  in  the  moment  his  ancient 
manner  returned  to  him.  He  rose  and,  setting  chairs  for 
the  ladies,  stood  erect  before  them  till  they  were  seated. 
Then  he  remembered  that  he  was  in  Aline's  cottage,  and 
he  turned  to  her  apologetically.  But  the  old  gentle- 
woman had  vanished.  For  the  request  of  the  visitors  had 
been  that  they  might  see  Mr.  Balgracie  and  his  daughter. 

Aline  went  out  and  sat  on  the  knoll  behind.  But  even 
through  the  bright  haze  of  the  summer  afternoon,  a  vague 
uneasy  feeling  of  being  secretly  watched  drew  her  down  to 
the  road-side,  along  which  the  carts  were  passing,  and 
where  she  could  hear  the  men  chattering  to  the  girls  on 
the  hayricks  down  in  the  meadow.  But  she  kept  far 
enough  away  from  the  cottage,  for  Aline  was  no  keyhole 
listener. 

Within,  Adora  had  simply  ceased  her  toil  upon  their  en- 
trance, accepting  the  compliments  of  the  Lady  of  Lowran 
with  a  bow.  If  her  father  had  forgotten  the  road  from  the 
House  of  Muir  and  the  words  that  had  been  spoken  there, 
she  for  one  had  not.  The  Cleuch  of  Pluckamin  rose  be- 
fore her,  and  she  heard  the  words :  " You — you  alone  have 
bewitched  him !  He  left  me  to  seek  the  Strange  Woman. 
Give  him  back  to  me !" 

So  Adora  bowed,  as  only  a  woman  on  the  defensive  can 
bow  to  another.  And  she  stood  still  in  her  place  by  the 
window,  waiting.  Whenever  it  was  a  matter  of  the  head, 
none  was  more  completely  armed  at  all  points  than  Adora 
Gracie.  She  was  not  excited  by  her  unusual  visitors. 
Her  pulse  went  never  a  beat  the  faster.  She  was  not  even 
angry,  for  anger  mars  the  judgment.  Behind  the  smooth 


348  STRONG  MAC 

young  brow  Adora's  brain  lay  cool  and  ready,  and  her  lips 
never  so  much  as  paled,  only  firming  themselves  a  little  to 
speak  with  the  enemy  in  the  gate. 

It  was  otherwise  with  the  Lady  of  Lowran.  Her  brain 
was  perverse,  her  will  contrary,  her  judgment  nil,  but 
within  her  she  had  a  woman's  heart,  with  all  its  strengths 
and  weaknesses.  And  so  in  a  way  she  was  Adora's  match 
and  more.  Instinctively,  therefore,  she  took  the  only  line 
with  the  girl  that  would  have  compelled  her  to  listen  to 
Sidney  Latimer's  mother  with  any  degree  of  sympathy 
or  even  patience. 

The  Lady  of  Lowran  began  in  that  clear,  semi-Biblical 
English  which  Scots  folk  of  every  degree  still  used  on  any 
occasion  recognised  as  important.  "I  beg  you  to  listen  to 
me  for  a  moment,"  she  said ;  "I  have  spoken  things  which 
are  beyond  pardon.  But  I  was  a  woman — out  of  myself, 
seeking  a  son  lost  to  me,  an  only  son,  in  whom  was  my 
life.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  pardon,  but  only  to  forget — to 
pass  from  them.  At  such  times  one  is  apt  to  speak  words 
that  are  but  as  wind.  Let  them  be  as  wind — and  forgive 
an  old  woman !" 

This  was  said  with  considerable  dignity,  and  it  was 
Donald  Gracie  who  answered. 

"I  am  not  aware,"  said  the  old  Dominie,  courteously, 
"to  what  madam  refers." 

It  was  the  simple  truth,  but  Mrs.  Latimer  took  it  for 
the  natural  refinement  of  the  born  gentleman — a  quality 
which,  truth  to  tell,  it  would  have  been  long  before  she 
had  noticed  in  humble  Donald  Gracie,  the  village  school- 
master. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  said  the  Lady  of  Lowran, 
"but  only  what  I  would  have  expected  from  Mr.  Bal- 
gracie  of  Balgracie !" 

At  the  word  the  Dominie  half  rose  from  his  chair,  while 
his  face  flushed  up  with  a  strange  scared  look. 

"Madam,"  he  began,  his  voice  suddenly  tremulous, 
"you  have  addressed  me  by  a  name  which — a  name  I  do 
not  claim  any  connection  with.  My  name  is  Gracie.  May 


BALGRACIE  OF  BALGRACIE  349 

I  ask  who  informed  you  that  I — that  the  name  you 
used—" 

Rapidly  increasing  agitation  did  not  permit  him  to  finish 
his  sentence.  Adora  moved  to  his  side,  and  made  him  sit 
back  in  his  arm-chair. 

"You  forget — I  heard  you  state  the  fact  yourself,  Mr. 
Balgracie,"  said  the  old  lady;  "but,  we  were  all  of  us 
somewhat  out  of  ourselves  on  that  occasion,  and  maybe 
more  was  said  than  you  or  I  would  care  to  stand 
by.  At  least,  I  speak  for  myself.  Let  that  go.  But  pardon 
me  if,  in  calmer  mood,  I  ask  whether  you  are  indeed 
Donald  Balgracie,  the  son  of  sometime  Archibald  Bal- 
gracie of  Balgracie,  and  the  brother  of  the  late  William 
Balgracie  of  that  ilk?" 

The  eyes  of  the  old  Dominie  flashed  fire.  He  rose 
trembling,  holding  on  to  the  arms  of  his  chair  and 
steadying  himself  by  the  mantelpiece. 

"The  late?"  He  almost  screamed  the  words.  "Did  you 
say  the  late  William  Balgracie  of  Balgracie?" 

Mrs.  Latimer  nodded  with  the  satisfied  air  of  one  who  is 
the  first  to  convey  an  important  piece  of  news. 

"William  is  dead — my  brother  William!" — he  said. 
Then  with  a  spasm  of  remembrance  transported  from 
days  very  far  in  the  past,  he  murmured,  "He  was  kind  to 
me — sometimes.  He  cut  me  switches  out  of  Balgracie 
wood.  They  were  of  willow,  and  I  wanted  them  to  play 
horses  with." 

"But,  sir,  I  do  not  think  that  you  yet  understand  fully 
the  position  of  affairs,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer.  "I  have  under 
my  hand  a  letter  from  a  lawyer  in  Edinburgh  which  says 
that  your  brother  William  died  without  heirs,  and  that 
you—" 

She  in  her  turn  did  not  get  time  to  finish.  The  Dominie 
suddenly  shot  erect.  The  bent  old  shoulders  straightened 
themselves.  The  head  was  thrown  back,  and  the  nostrils 
filled  out. 

"Then  /  am  Balgracie  of  Balgracie!"  he  said.  And 
letting  go  the  arm  of  his  chair,  he  paced  the  floor  of 


350  STRONG  MAC 

Aline's  little  "ben"  room,  with  some  of  the  verve  of  youth 
come  back  to  his  shrunken  form.  Then  as  rapidly  recall- 
ing himself,  he  asked  the  ladies'  pardon  with  a  pleasant 
antique  grace. 

"When  these  things  arrive  late  to  a  man,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "they  make  him  forget  his  manners.  "I  hope" 
(he  added  the  words  with  his  hand  upon  his  breast) 
"that  on  a  future  occasion  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  re- 
ceiving you  elsewhere — more  fittingly — in  the  home  of 
my  ancestors — if  you  will  do  me  that  honour !" 

Then  it  was  that  Adora  interposed,  speaking  for  the  first 
time. 

"You  are  sure,  madam,"  she  said,  "that  what  you  say 
is  true?  Otherwise  it  were  cruel  to  play  with  the  weak- 
nesses of  an  old  man.  Neither  of  us  has  heard  anything 
of  this,  but  if  you  will  state  plainly  what  you  know  to  me, 
I  shall  be  deeply  grateful  to  you !" 

The  old  lady  took  from  her  pocket  a  letter. 

"My  glasses,  Purslane !"  she  said,  searching  in  her  side 
pocket.  She  had  to  pull  up  her  stiff  skirt  of  flowered  silk 
to  do  it,  and  as  she  groped  vainly,  Adora  felt  the  first 
kindly  human  feeling  come  into  her  breast  towards  the 
woman  who,  in  her  hour  of  pain,  had  most  deeply  insulted 
her. 

But  the  glasses  were  not  to  be  found,  and  so  Mrs. 
Latimer  was  compelled  to  relate  generally  the  purport  of 
the  lawyer's  letter  to  whom  she  had  applied  for  informa- 
tion. It  ran  as  follows.  Mr.  William  Balgracie  was  dead. 
He  had  lost  a  great  deal  of  money  in  his  latter  days, 
through  unfortunate  speculations,  and  it  was  believed  that 
he  had  to  some  extent  impaired  the  estate  which  his  father 
had  transmitted  to  him,  but  as  to  that  nothing  definite  was 
yet  known.  He  had  lived  a  very  strange,  irregular  life, 
and  had  died  intestate.  Heirs  had  been  advertised  for, 
but  so  far  none  had  been  forthcoming.  However,  if  Mrs. 
Latimer  knew  of  any  one  likely  to  benefit,  they  should  ap- 
ply at  once  to  Messrs.  McKnight  &  McMath,  Writers  to 
the  Signet,  at  their  office  in  Parliament  Close,  Edinburgh. 


BALGRACIE  OF  BALGRACIE  351 

Adora  heard,  as  it  were,  with  enchanted  ears,  that  took 
in  the  words,  but  left  the  meaning  knocking  vainly  with- 
out. Even  then  it  was  to  her  as  a  tale  that  is  told — <4Bal- 
gracie  of  Balgracie,"  and  her  father  strutting  about  as  if 
the  world  were  but  an  appendage  of  the  family  name. 
Nevertheless,  she  had  a  question  or  two  to  ask.  And  first 
of  all,  one  of  her  father. 

"Is  aught  of  this  true,  father?"  she  said,  "and  if  so, 
why  have  you  never  told  me?" 

The  Dominie  hung  his  head,  suddenly  halted  in  mid- 
stride. 

"There  were  reasons — you  were  very  young!"  he  said. 
"And  afterwards — you  did  not  believe  when  I  told  you. 
/  do  not  blame  you!" 

He  sighed  as  he  uttered  the  last  words. 

"Then  you  are  really  a  rich  man's  son,"  she  continued, 
"and  may  be  heir  to  an  estate?" 

"If  this  be  true,  as  there  seems  no  reason  to  doubt,  I 
am  both !"  said  the  Dominie,  not  without  a  certain  dignity. 
He  had  never  expected  it,  but  now  when  the  thing  came 
upon  him,  in  a  moment  everything  seemed  as  if  it  could 
not  have  happened  otherwise. 

Then  there  flashed  through  Adora's  heart  a  strange 
mixed  feeling.  If  it  were  so,  if  they  were  indeed  rich — 
and  a  little  would  be  riches  to  her,  she  could  repay  Aline. 
She  could  make  it  up  to  Captain  Sinclair,  to  the  brave 
Adam.  She  could  take  Daid  away  from  all  the  trouble, 
and  provide  for  him  in  a  new  ife — where  he  would  be 
cared  for,  and  not  let  run  wild  like  a  beast  on  the 
hills. 

There  remained  Sidney  Latimer  and  Roy  McCulloch. 

Ah,  what  of  them  ?  What  difference  would  her  father's 
position  and  her  heirship  (the  word  was  as  strange  to 
Adora  as  the  thing)  have  on  these  two?  First  of  all,  and 
she  thought  it  as  she  looked  at  his  mother,  it  would  put 
her  on  an  equality  with  Sidney  Latimer.  The  reason  she 
had  given  for  Sidney's  not  visiting  at  her  father's  house 
would  immediately  disappear.  Difficulties  would  be  re- 


352  STRONG  MAC 

solved.  But  did  she  wish  them  to  be  removed  ?  Ah,  there 
was  the  question. 

Remained  Roy  McCulloch — what  of  him  ? 

And  at  that  moment  something  sent  a  sudden  chill 
shudder  through  Adora's  body.  At  every  step  she  was 
being  forced  nearer  the  parting  of  the  ways.  And  one  of 
the  roads  seemed  easy  and  open — that  which  led  directly 
to  the  Great  House  of  Lowran. 

But  the  other — ah,  that  was  harder,  but  there  were 
heartsome  blinks  upon  it,  too,  sunlight  and  shadow  cun- 
ningly intermixed,  drifts  of  shower  and  bursts  of  glorious 
light.  The  wide  arch  of  the  sky  was  lifted  above  it.  The 
path  led  over  purple  moors,  on  which  one  could  breathe, 
and — a  man  used  to  walk  by  her  side  along  it — one  whose 
presence  she  had  never  yet  lacked,  yet  never  been  grateful 
for — all  her  life.  That  road,  which  now  seemed  to  be  bar- 
riered against  her,  led  to  the  House  of  Muir. 

And  lo !  for  the  first  time  the  girl's  heart  threatened  to 
overwhelm  her  head  in  a  tide  of  feeling  she  had  never 
known  the  like  of  before.  A  voice  she  had  never  heard 
began  to  speak  with  her,  somewhere  deep  down,  and  would 
not  be  put  to  silence. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

THE  NAME! 

THE  Lady  of  Lowran  and  her  far-seeing  companion, 
Purslane,  took  their  way  homeward  through  the  warm 
mid-afternoon  silences.  About  them  the  broad  skirts  of 
the  avenue  trees  spread  like  crinolines,  already  losing  their 
first  spring  freshness  of  attire,  and  taking  on  the  dull  sage- 
green  which  is  the  livery  of  fullest  midsummer. 

They  did  not  talk  much.  Purslane  inly  was  pleased 
with  the  success  of  her  manoeuvres  and  now  occupied  her- 
self in  pretending  the  necessary  sulks.  At  the  first  clash 
of  eyes  the  Lady  of  Lowran  had  recognised  that  with 
Adora  as  Sidney's  wife,  she  would  have  one  at  Lowran 
who  would  meet  and  possibly  master  her  at  her  own 
weapons.  But  was  it  equally  certain  that,  even  if  Sidney 
asked,  Adora  would  accept  him  ?  Ah,  Mrs.  Latimer  was  a 
fond  mother,  and  the  thought  that  any  woman  born  of 
woman  could  long  resist  her  son  had  not  once  occurred  to 
her. 

To  Purslane  and  her  mistress  thus  progressing  silently 
homeward  there  entered  a  third — a  woman  who  rushed 
distracted  through  the  brushwood  and  burst  upon  them 
with  flying  footsteps  and  the  crashing  of  undergrowth. 
The  Lady  of  Lowran  and  Purslane  started  back.  The 
companion  screamed.  And  small  wonder.  For  it  was  a 
time  when  the  aftermath  of  legend  concerning  undiscov- 
ered crime  still  predisposed  the  more  nervous  sex  to 


354  STRONG  MAC 

scream  a  little  when  a  plate  dropped  or  a  rabbit  scatted 
quickly  across  the  path  in  front  of  them. 

"Quick — quick ! — Come  with  me !"  cried  the  woman. 
She  was  panting,  her  hands  on  her  breast.  "I  was  sent  to 
fetch  you.  Jonathan  must  speak  with  you.  He  is  dying !" 

And  in  her  haste  and  eagerness  she  clutched  Purslane's 
arm  a  little  above  the  wrist. 

"Hands  off  an  honest  man's  wife !"  cried  the  widow.  "I 
have  heard  of  you,  woman — what  has  happened  to 
Jonathan  Grier  ?  Answer  me !" 

For  the  moment  the  woman,  a  dark  gipsy-faced  quean, 
on  the  borderland  between  reckless  youth  and  battered 
womanhood,  took  no  notice  of  the  insult. 

"Aye,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  pair  before  her,  "and 
ye'll  be  Mistress  Latimer  o'  Lowran.  I  have  been  at  the 
House  to  seek  ye.  They  sent  me  here.  Come  wi'  me. 
Jonathan  is  dying,  I  tell  ye !  He  has  had  a  stroke,  and  he 
canna  die  easy  till  he  has  spoken  with  you — with  you, 
first,  mistress — and  with  your  son  afterwards!  He  bade 
me  bring  ye  baith !" 

"Who  are  you,  woman?"  demanded  the  Lady  of  Low- 
ran,  "and  what  have  you  to  do  with  Jonathan  Grier?" 

"What  has  any  woman  to  do  with  a  dying  man  ?"  cried 
the  woman  with  some  point,  "but  to  bring  him  that  which 
will  let  him  die  happy — without  the  guilt  of  blood  on  his 
soul !  But,  if  the  thing  concerns  you,  my  name  is  Lizbeth 
Dearborn." 

The  face  of  the  Lady  of  Lowran  whitened,  but  all  the 
same  she  turned  at  the  word,  and  the  three  women  took 
their  way  hurriedly  through  the  policies  toward  the  cot- 
tage of  the  chief  gamekeeper.  Poor  'Lizzie  Dearborn,  the 
bunch  of  tashed  ribbands  in  her  lustreless  black  hair 
wraving  this  way  and  that  as  if  in  mockery,  would  run  on 
a  little  in  front,  and  then,  as  if  bound  by  a  promise  not  to 
return  without  her  companions,  she  would  turn  back  again 
to  hasten  their  march. 

Jonathan  Grier's  cottage  was  placed  in  a  retired  part  of 
the  Lowran  policies.  A  high  wall,  all  that  remained  of 


THE  NAME!  355 

the  enclosure  of  the  former  deer-park,  protected  it  on  one 
side.  Behind,  a  great  sombre  clump  of  spruce  firs  cast  a 
blue-black  barrier  of  shadow.  The  river  ran  in  front,  and 
made  a  pleasant  murmuring  if  the  three  women  had  had 
any  ears  wherewith  to  listen  to  the  summer  silences. 
Dragon-flies  darted  hither  and  thither,  the  red  and  the 
green  together  in  matrimonial  and  artistic  complement, 
and  also  lower  down  on  the  water-edge,  the  blue  and  the 
orange. 

Everywhere  without  was  the  still  indifferent  beauty  of 
nature — within  a  man  suddenly  stricken  down  in  his  pride 
and  sufficiency.  Aging  a  little,  but  still  prodigal  of 
strength,  Jonathan  Grier  had  in  a  moment  fallen  helpless, 
as  if  the  finger  of  God  had  touched  him.  In  the  simple, 
terrible  speech  of  the  place  and  time,  he  had  "had  a 
stroke." 

It  was  his  left  side,  and  there  was  little  hope,  the  doctor 
had  said.  But  he  must  speak  to  the  Lady  of  Lowran,  he 
himself  reiterated,  even  to  weariness,  otherwise  he  could 
not  die  at  ease.  The  gamekeeper  was  lying  on  a  bed, 
roughly  undressed,  the  coarse  day-shirt  he  had  had  upon 
him  cut  away  from  the  neck.  But  the  sheet  that  was  drawn 
across  his  breast  was  clean  and  cool,  an  island  of  freshness 
in  that  chamber  of  guns  and  pipes  and  masculine  disarray. 
Over  the  mantelpiece,  a  cheap  looking-glass,  bought  at  a 
fair,  and  framed  in  gaudy  ribbons,  obtruded  a  strange  note 
of  discordant  colour.  There  was  also  a  fiddle  with  all  the 
strings  broken,  hanging  against  the  wall,  but  the  case  was 
smashed,  as  if  some  one  had  put  his  foot  through  it  in  a  fit 
of  anger  or  drunkenness. 

"Set  the  leddies'  chairs,  Lizzie,"  said  the  sick  man,  in 
that  strange  whisper  which  the  dying  use,  hoarse  and  yet 
restrained,  as  if  there  was  some  one  waiting  in  the  next 
room  whom  they  did  not  wish  to  summon  too  quickly. 
"Noo,  gang  oot,  Lizzie,  but  bide  by  the  door.  Let  nane 
come  in." 

"God  be  thankit!  Here's  the  maister!  They  hae 
keepit  their  word  and  sent  for  him!"  said  Lizzie  Dear- 


356  STRONG  MAC 

born  at  that  moment.  And  indeed  it  was  Sidney  Latimer 
who  passed  the  window  as  she  spoke. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  the  woman,  with  a  reassuring  brisk- 
ness which  his  countenance  belied,  "what  is  the  matter 
with  Jonathan  ?  I  heard  he  had  a  bad  turn  in  the  woods — 
a  touch  of  the  sun,  likely.  Has  the  doctor  been  here  ?  Is 
he  well  enough  to  see  me?" 

The  woman  did  not  answer,  but  only  motioned  the 
young  laird  with  her  hand  to  enter. 

"Mother!"  he  cried,  in  surprise  and  some  displeasure, 
seeing  Mrs.  Latimer  sit  by  the  bed,  with  Purslane 
somewhat  nearer  the  door  on  the  other  side.  Mrs.  Lati- 
mer made  a  gesture  requiring  silence.  Jonathan  Grier  was 
struggling  for  utterance.  Sidney  Latimer,  instantly 
recognising  that  the  gamekeeper's  case  was  far  more 
serious  than  he  had  anticipated,  went  softly  up  to  the  bed. 
The  sick  man  moved  his  hand  in  instinctive  salute.  It 
was  the  habit  of  a  lifetime. 

"I  hope  this  is  nothing — that  you  will  be  about  again 
in  a  day  or  two !"  said  the  young  man.  Jonathan  Grier 
smiled  a  little  bitterly. 

"Better — yes,  better  than  the  other — !"  he  murmured, 
still  in  that  same  low,  hoarse  whisper.  Then  with  a  sud- 
den movement  he  thrust  his  contorted  face  forward, 
"better  than  to  go  about  kennin'  that  there  may  be  a  knife 
waitin'  for  ye  ahint  every  dyke.  Better — aye,  better  a 
heap  than  that !" 

"What  is  it,  Jonathan?"  said  his  master,  gently,  "what 
has  been  disturbing  you  ?" 

"Have  I  been  a  faithfu'  servant  to  you  and  yours,  ay 
or  no?  Answer  me  that!"  said  the  gamekeeper. 

Sidney  nodded.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  thought, 
Jonathan  Grier's  fidelity  to  the  family  might  have  been 
even  in  overplus. 

"I  have  striven  to  serve  you  according  to  the  thing  I 
could,"  he  continued.  "At  times  maybe  wrongeously,  but 
— when  I'm  gane,  I  hae  ae  thing  to  ask  o'  you,  Maister 
Sidney!" 


THE  NAME!  357 

"And  what  is  that?"  said  the  young  man,  in  his  quietest 
tones,  for  he  feared  what  he  was  about  to  hear. 

"Ye  saw  that  lass  at  the  door,"  said  the  stricken  man, 
"ye  hae  seen  her  afore — .  She  has  her  fauts,  Guid  kens, 
and  a'  folk  here  away  ken  them.  But  dinna  ootcast  her 
a'  thegither.  That  helps  neither  man  nor  woman,  least  o' 
a* — woman !  Mony  is  the  time  puir  Leezie  has  saved  me 
frae  death.  Even  noo  she  is  watchin'  oot  yonder  amang 
the  black  spruces  that  I  may  hae  time  to  speak  the  word  in 
peace  to  you,  and  at  the  last  mak'  a  gentle  end !" 

"Ay,"  he  said,  repeating  himself,  as  if  the  words 
pleased  him,  "mak'  a  gentle  end."  No  that  I  deserve  it.  I 
had  as  guid  a  mither  as  ony  in  the  land — ye  mind  her, 
mistress  ?  She  aye  thocht  mickle  o'  you.  And  at  schule  I 
was  a  brave  guid  learner,  and  juist  special  in  the  Scrip- 
tures o'  the  Auld  and  New  Testaments.  I  could  spell 
every  word  in  the  buik  frae  ledd  to  ledd  !*  Ay,  I  could 
spell  Maher-shalal-hash-baz,  and  be  never  feared!  An', 
Lord,  when  I  think  on't,  mickle  guid  it  has  done  me !  And 
then  a'  the  texts  and  the  chapters  I  learned,  never  gied  my 
conscience  the  skart  o'  a  preen.  The  ministers  preach,  that 
they  do,  and  maybe  it's  true  wi'  some  folk.  A'  I  can  say  is, 
me  they  never  bothered.  Na,  no  even  noo.  Though  gin 
there  were  time  I  could  gie  ye  rare  blauds  o'  Scripture 
frae  'In  the  beginning'  to  yon  awesome  bit  i'  the  Revela- 
tions aboot  the  dogs  and  the  idolaters  and  the  murderers 
bein'  sent  withoot — !" 

"Open  the  window,  sir,  an  it  please  ye.  I  can  see  the 
weil  frae  here.  Thank  ye,  sir!  There  was  a  troot  that 
loupit.  Did  ye  notice  ?  That's  Tailie.  I  caa'ed  him  that 
because  he  has  a  split  tail  like  a  black-cock.  I  wadna  put 
him  an  ounce  under  a  pund  and  a  half — a  grand  troot, 
Tailie !  But  it's  no  worth  buskin'  a  flee  for  him  the  day, 
sir,  the  water  is  ower  clear  for  him  to  tak' !  But  if  ye  were 
keen  o't  and  if  there  was  a  chance,  it  wad  be  wi'  the  Grey 
Drake  that  ye  wad  nick  him !" 

*I.e.t  board  to  board. 


358  STRONG  MAC 

So  the  gamekeeper  wandered  on,  passing  from  one 
thing  to  another,  no  one  daring  to  interrupt  him. 

"Ay,  it's  fell  bonny,"  he  whispered,  shading  his  eyes 
from  the  light  to  look  out  of  the  window,  "and  if  a'  tales 
be  true  it'll  be  ocht  but  bonny  where  I  am  gaun.  Speak 
ivi  the  minister?  Na,  I  thank  ye,  sir.  A  heathen  man  hae 
I  leevit  for  fifty  odd  years  on  the  earth,  and  what  for 
should  I  mak'  a  mock  and  an  insult  o'  the  Almichty  to  His 
face,  and  me  to  stand  afore  Him  maybe  before  the  sun  is 
set?  Na,  na,  I  thank  ye,  sir.  It's  kindly  thocht,  I'm  no 
denyin' — and  the  custom  o'  the  countryside !  Forbye  the 
doctor  is  a  very  decent  man  and  a  guid  curler,  though 
he  can  fish  nane — and  I  quastion  whether  he  kens  the  way 
to  heeven  a  whit  better  than  me.  Na,  na,  as  the  tree  faa's, 
sae  maun  it  lie.  The  Buik  I  learned  frae  as  a  laddie  says 
sae.  And  Jonathan  Grier  haes  fa'en — ay,  fa'en  as  an 
auld  aik  faa's  i'  the  saft  land  o'  the  forest — that  has  a 
brave  spread  aboon  but  nae  grip  beneath.  And  sae  maun 
he  lie — sae  maun  he  lie !" 

After  this  the  gamekeeper  remained  silent  for  a  while, 
till  Sidney  Latimer,  fearing  that  he  might  not  have  time 
to  speak  at  all  what  he  had  on  his  mind,  ventured  to  re- 
mind him  that  there  was  something  which  he  had  de- 
sired to  tell  them. 

The  gamekeeper  put  the  hand  which  was  yet  untouched 
of  the  paralysis  to  his  brow.  Then  taking  it  down,  he 
looked  at  it  curiously  and  long. 

"It  is  clean,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "thank  the  Lord — 
clean  o'  the  sheddin'  o'  bluid.  Yet  it  has  been  sair  en- 
tangled wi'  the  blood-shedder.  I  am  no  denyin'  that.  Yet 
will  I  not  tell  you  his  name — lest  my  curse,  the  fear  I  hae 
carried  in  my  heart  every  hour  and  day,  pass  to  you.  Yes, 
I  am  the  man  wha,  at  Drumfern  assize,  wadna  declare  Roy 
McCulloch  guiltless  of  the  blood  of  Muckle  Sandy  Ewan. 
Yet  I  kenned  different.  There  is  paper  on  that  shelf. 
There — the  powder-flask  is  lyin'  on  it!  Ink?  There's 
some  i'  the  trance — no,  in  the  aumrie.  Ye  hae  a  pen? 
Then  write  as  I  bid  ye,  for  ye  are  a  lawyer  or  should  be, 


THE  NAME!  359 

and  I  will  sign — a'  but  the  name — I  canna  tell  the  name,  I 
maun  mak'  shift  to  write  the  name  mysel'  on  a  place  apart ! 
And  after  I  am  deid,  ye  shall  gie  it  to  the  sherra  and  he 
will  richt  the  innocent!  For  Roy  McCulloch  is  an  inno- 
cent man,  and  was  righteously  acquitted,  though  I  wadna 
gie  my  voice  for  him.  But  I  hae  paid  for  it  since — oh, 
that  wullcat — that  ettercap,  that  ill-contrived  son  o'  per- 
dition !  That  ever  I  had  ocht  to  do  wi'  him !  I  had  been  a 
deid  man  lang  syne  had  it  no  been  for  poor  Lizbeth  there 
— Lizbeth  Dearborn,  that  ilka  body  can  find  a  stane  by 
every  dykeside  to  throw  at !" 

"Write,  sir,  write!" 

"I,  Jonathan  Grier,  gamekeeper  upon  Lowran  for 
thirty  years,  being  about  to  die,  and  gangin'  fast  to  my  ac- 
count, but  wishing  no  back-castings  when  I  am  gane,  do 
hereby  declare  (that's  the  lilt  o't?)  that  Roy  McCulloch  is 
guiltless  of  the  death  of  Alexander  Ewan,  though  I  held 
to  the  contrar'  in  the  jury  chamber  at  Drumfern.  And  it 
happened  this  wise,  and  no  other : 

"Sandy  Ewan  was  angered  at  Roy  McCulloch,  and  me 
and  anither  saw  our  chance  to  wile  the  siller  oot  o'  him. 
(Eh,  but  he  was  the  bitter  weed,  Muckle  Sandy!)  He 
wad  pay  to  hae  Roy  McCulloch  charged  wi'  sheep-stealin', 
and  either  hung  or  transported.  Weel,  we  managed  to  get 
Roy  pitten  i'  the  jail,  and  when  that  was  dune  we  were  to 
gang  and  claim  the  first  o'  the  siller  frae  him.  Sae  it  was 
me  that  listened  at  the  room  door  in  Boreland,  a  loaded 
gun  in  my  hand — wi'  Dickie  Dick  and  his  mate  lyin' 
tremblin'  in  the  next  chaumer  till  they  shook  a'  the  hoose, 
as  weel  we  kenned,  for  we  had  seen  them  gang  in.  A  guid 
job  it  was  for  them  that  they  werena  called  upon.  Then 
Muckle  Sandy  put  us  aff  wi'  fair  promises.  He  hadna  the 
siller — anither  time — the  job  wasna  finished  yet!  So 
seem'  that  nocht  was  to  be  made  o'  him  there  wi'  his 
cotmen  hearkenin'  wi'  their  lugs  at  the  keyhole,  we  cam' 
oot  as  yin  o'  us  had  gaed  in,  by  the  lang  window  into 
the  garden.  By  and  bye  Sandy  followed — to  look  roond 
the  place,  he  said.  And  there,  lookin'  ower  the  yett  into 


360  STRONG  MAC 

the  Glebe  Road,  he  saw  the  twa  o'  us  speakin'  thegither, 
me  an'  him  that  I'll  no  name !  And  wi'  that  the  great  black 
anger  cam'  sudden  upon  him,  and  he  up  an'  ordered  us  to 
gang  aff  his  farm.  Then  being  sair  disappointed  and  in 
want  o'  siller,  there  were  some  sharp  answers.  When  a* 
on  a  sudden  Sandy  puts  up  his  hand  to  strike.  It  wasna 
me  he  struck !  Weel  for  him  had  it  been,  but  I  saw  the 
bricht  steel  flash — and  the  next  I  kenned  was  Muckle 
Sandy  Ewan  lyin'  at  my  feet  wi'  a  knife  hafted  sax  inch 
in  his  throat !" 

"That's  a' !  I'll  sign  it  and  write  the  name  o'  the  man, 
if  ye  fold  it,  sir,  and  sair  obleeged  to  you  I'll  be !  And 
maybe  ye  will  mind  that,  sinner  as  I  am,  it  wasna 
a'thegither  for  the  siller  that  I  was  led  into  this  o't,  but 
because  I  had  a  notion  that,  that — if  Roy  McCulloch  was 
out  of  the  road — ye  micht  maybe  get  mair  o'  your  ain  way 
wi'  a  lass  that  ye  thocht  mickle  o' !  Ay,  sir,  I  thank  ye. 
There  ye  hae  it,  all  and  hale,  the  confession  o'  Jonathan 
Grier,  a  dyin'  man  and  yin  that  asks  only  to  be  let  gang 
in  peace  to  bear  the  reward  o'  the  iniquity  he  has 
wrocht ! 

"And  thank  ye  again,  sir,  and  you,  madam.  Ye  will 
find  a'  the  accoonts  richt,  and  the  week's  wage — the  siller 
to  pay  the  foresters  is  in  the  far  drawer  to  the  left  hand. 
And  I  meant  ye  nae  ill,  Maister  Latimer,  whatever  I  in- 
tended to  ither  folk.  I  was  first  day  an'  last  your  faithfu' 
servant !  Sae  maybe,  oot  o'  your  kind  heart,  ye  willna  let 
puir  Lizzie  starve!  Thank  ye,  sir — spoken  like  yoursel', 
sirT 

Then  in  the  completest  silence  of  the  afternoon  there  fell 
three  taps,  light,  distinct  and  clear,  on  the  green  glass  of 
the  little  leaden-paned  window  above  the  sick  man's  head. 

Jonathan  Grier  started  up,  balancing  himself  on  his  still 
untouched  arm  and  thigh. 

"No,  no,"  he  cried — shouted  rather,  "mercy — mercy— 
I  never  mentioned  ony  name.  I  swear  it.  Maister  Lati- 
mer, ye  will  will  bear  me  oot — ye  will  swear  to  that! 
Dinna — dinna — blame  it  on  a  dying  man !" 


THE  NAME!  361 

His  face  contorted  itself.  A  thread  of  foam  showed 
grey  for  a  moment  at  the  lips. 

With  a  loud  sudden  clang  that  jangled  all  nerves,  the 
ribbon-wreathed  mirror  fell  on  the  flagged  floor  and 
smashed  into  atoms.  Something  rattled  like  a  wheel  on 
gravel,  and  Jonathan  Grier,  murderer's  accomplice  and 
faithful  servant,  fell  back — dead! 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

LOVER  OR   FRIEND. 

SIDNEY  LATIMER  conveyed  his  mother  home.  The  old 
lady  had  been  inexpressibly  shocked  at  the  terrible  death 
of  one  whom  she  had  known  all  her  life,  who  had  indeed 
come  with  her  from  her  native  place  when  she  married 
Sidney's  father.  Her  son  left  her,  therefore,  to  the  care  of 
Purslane,  while  he  himself  went  into  the  library  to  face  the 
new  problem  which  presented  itself  to  him  in  consequence 
of  his  interview  with  the  dead  gamekeeper. 

He  looked  at  the  confession.  The  signature  was  plain 
and  distinct,  but  at  the  moment  when  the  three  taps  came 
upon  the  window  glass,  the  already  half-paralysed  hand 
had  just  begun  to  form  the  first  letter  of  the  murderer's 
name.  The  result  was  only  the  indistinguishable  scribble 
which  the  pen  had  made,  as  Jonathan  Grier  had  started  up 
for  the  last  time.  Probably  the  knowledge  that  he  was  in 
act  to  betray  the  secret  he  had  guarded  so  long  made  that 
light  tap  on  the  green  swirls  of  the  leaden  panes  above 
his  head  sound  loud  in  his  dying  ear  as  the  trump  of  doom. 
The  which,  indeed,  it  was ! 

So  now,  reviewing  all  the  circumstances,  Sidney  knew 
that,  though  the  evidence  was  strong  enough  to  convince 
almost  any  doubter,  without  the  name  of  the  actual  mur- 
derer Roy  could  not  be  more  publicly  cleared  than  he  had 
been.  Still,  what  Sidney  Latimer  had  heard  made  a  great 
difference  to  his  own  mind.  And  for  a  particular  reason 
this  weighed  with  him.  He  must  do  that  which  he  felt  to 
be  his  duty.  For  though  he  had  refrained  from  publicly 
declaring  his  doubts,  he  had  not  concealed  his  belief 


LOVER  OR  FRIEND  363 

from  Adora  that  Roy  McCulloch  was  far  from  having 
cleared  himself  of  suspicion.  Indeed,  on  more  than  one 
occasion  he  had  treated  him  as  certainly  guilty  of  the  death 
of  Sandy  Ewan.  Now  Sidney  Latimer  had  a  violent 
temper,  but  he  was  a  just  man  and  a  gentleman.  Having 
done  wrong  and  spoken  hastily,  he  would  not  shrink  from 
putting  matters  right.  He  would  go  to  Adora  and  tell  her 
what  had  come  to  his  knowledge.  He  would  take  no  un- 
fair advantage  over  any  man. 

At  this  moment  a  low  tap  came  to  his  door.  It  was 
Purslane  with  a  message  that  his  mother  wished  to  see 
him  before  he  went  out. 

With  somewhat  of  an  ill  grace,  for  he  had  been  momen- 
tarily baulked  in  a  purpose  hard  to  resolve  and  harder  to 
perform,  Sidney  Latimer  went  upstairs  to  his  mother's 
room.  If  the  evil  day  must  come,  the  sooner  it  was  over 
the  better.  Sidney,  like  most  men,  liked  the  bad-quarter- 
of-an-hour  to  be  the  next  one.  So  he  took  the  oak  stairs 
three  at  a  time,  and  opened  the  door  of  her  room  to  find  the 
old  lady  resting  on  a  chair  with  her  eyes  closed.  As  he 
entered,  she  motioned  Purslane  away  with  a  weary  air. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  Sidney  alone  —  by  himself!"  said 
Mrs.  Latimer.  Purslane  gathered  up  her  scattered  prop- 
erties, the  black  satin  bag,  the  bone  knitting-needles,  the 
patchwork,  and  went  out  mumbling  defiantly  to  herself, 
"Ye  needna  be  that  particular,  mistress  —  as  if  it  hadna 
been  me  that  pit  the  first  notion  o't  into  the  head  o'  ye! 
I  ken  ye  are  gaun  to  bid  him  gang  and  speer  the  lass  he 
has  been  granein'  for  this  while  —  the  verra  lass  that  yince 
on  a  day  (and  no  that  lang  syne  either)  ye  miscaa'ed  like 
a  tinkler's  messan  on  the  road  up  the  Cleuch  o'  Plucka- 


"  Sidney,"  said  his  mother,  "sit  ye  down  by  me,  there  — 
nearer  !  This  has  been  a  shock  to  me  !  I  am  an  old 
woman,  Sidney,  and,  as  is  natural,  I  would  like  to  see  you 
married  before  —  before  —  ." 

"Mother,"  said  her  son,  with  a  man's  awkwardness  in 
presence  of  a  woman's  tears. 


364  STRONG  MAC 

The  old  lady  dabbed  at  her  eyes  and  continued  in  a  more 
assured  tone. 

"And  I  have  to-day  seen  Mr.  Balgracie  of  Balgracie — - 
whom  you  have  known  under  the  name  of  Gracie.  Mr. 
Greg,  of  Frederick  Street,  sent  me  word  of  his  succession. 
I  have  been  to-day  over  at  the  Gairie  Cottage  to  give  them 
the  news.  There  is  no  room  for  mistake.  The  estate  of 
Balgracie  is  in  the  hands  of  Messrs.  McKnight  &  Mc- 
Math,  of  Parliament  Close,  the  Writers  to  the  Signet. 
There  is  no  doubt  about  the  heirship  at  all.  Owing  to 
some  family  quarrel,  into  which  I  did  not  think  it  wise  to 
enter,  Mr.  Donald  Balgracie  has  thought  fit  up  to  the 
present  to  conceal  his  whereabouts  from  his  relatives,  and 
now  he  is  without  a  doubt  left  heir  to  all  the  family  prop- 
erty and  estates." 

Sidney  Latimer  stood  still  and  collected,  a  little  cold,  as 
is  apt  to  be  a  young  man's  way  with  a  too  fond  mother. 
Mrs.  Latimer  had  accustomed  herself  to  be  the  suppliant, 
whether  it  was  a  question  of  whom  he  should  marry  or 
whether  he  should  put  on  his  heavier  great-coat. 

"And  is  it  because  you  would  like  me  to  marry  an 
heiress,  that  you  tell  me  this  ?"  he  asked  of  his  mother. 

"Ay,  Sidney,  and  what  for  no?"  said  Mrs.  Latimer, 
suddenly  reviving  and  relaxing  her  attempt  at  semi-legal 
phrase.  "I  have  never  seen  folk  less  fond  the  one  of  the 
other  because  there  was  a  cow  or  two  i'  the  byre,  a  horse 
in  the  stall,  and  a  snod  pickle  siller  in  the  bank !  That's  an 
auld  woman's  way  o't,  laddie.  And  I'm  telling  ye,  I  hae 
seen  the  lass,  and  she  will  make  ye  a  wife  ye  need  never  be 
ashamed  o' — though  ye  should  hae  to  gang  afore  the  King, 
like  your  cousin  Threep-ma-thrapple !" 

"You  did  not  always  think  so,  mother,"  said  the  young 
laird,  "nor  would  you  now  but  for  the  property !" 

The  words  were  hard,  but  Sidney  Latimer  smiled  as 
he  said  them,  and  at  the  smile  his  mother  was  glad,  as 
always.  She  rose  and  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  be- 
lieving that  she  had  carried  her  point. 

"Well,  mother,   I  will  go  and  see  Miss — Miss  Bal- 


LOVER  OR  FRIEND  365 

grade,"  said  Sidney.     The  new  name  came  not  a  little 
awkwardly. 

"Oh,  my  Sidney/'  cried  the  old  lady,  kissing  him  fer- 
vently, "you  have  aye  been  a  comfort  to  your  mother. 
You  are  the  best  of  sons.  And  oh,  if  ye  bide  late,  be  sure 
to  take  a  pistol,  for  the  country  is  no  canny.  And  mind 
and  turn  up  the  collar  o'  your  coat.  There's  a  mist  that 
lies  alang  the  river-edge  that  is  no  kindly  for  young  folks' 
throats.  And  ye  ken  ye  hae  aye  had  a  weakness  there, 
Sidney- — ever  since  that  daft  auld  Purslane  let  ye  get  your 

feet  wat  in  the  Lowran  Burn  at  the  age  of  six !" 

*  *  *  #  *  *  * 

As  Sidney  Latimer  walked  along  the  path  by  the  water- 
side, and  crossed  the  little  bridge,  he  thought  upon  the 
wonderful  changes  which  these  months  had  brought  to 
Lowran.  He  could  not  yet  conceive  of  Adora  except  as 
the  mistress  of  the  little  school,  the  dainty  spinner  at  the 
wheel,  the  light-footed  girl  who  went  and  came  on  the 
floor  of  the  little  flagged  kitchen  where  he  had  spent  his 
happiest  hours.  He  wished  rather  that  she  had  been  there 
still,  and  that  instead  of  going  through  his  own  policies, 
he  had  been  on  his  way  to  that  schoolhouse  which  now 
turned  so  cold  and  reproachful  a  shoulder  upon  him  every 
time  he  passed  it.  For  the  sight  of  Baillie  of  Hardhill's 
nominee  sitting  smoking  his  pipe  in  Donald  Grade's  seat 
was  enough  to  send  the  young  man  home  fast  as  his  mare 
could  gallop. 

When  Sidney  entered  the  cottage  of  Aline,  he  was  as- 
tonished at  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  the  Dominie. 
Instead  of  an  old  worn  man  sitting  drowsily  over  a  book  in 
the  arm-chair,  he  found  a  man  apparently  younger  by  ten 
or  fifteen  years,  who  bowed  to  the  Laird  of  Lowran  with 
a  courtly  air,  and  offered  his  hand  as  to  an  equal. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  call  upon  us  so  promptly,"  he  said. 
"We  are  remaining  her  for  a  few  days  in  the  meantime, 
my  daughter  and  I.  We  think  it  is  best,  and  the  good 
woman,  our  hostess,  has  been  exceedingly  kind.  But,  of 
course,  after  so  long  time  I  am  anxious  to  be  at  work.  I 


366  STRONG  MAC 

have  not  even  seen  the  old  place  for  years.  And  as  my  late 
brother  has  also  passed  most  of  his  life  away  from  home, 
I  fear  I  may  find  it  sadly  neglected." 

At  this  point  Sidney  made  a  polite  inquiry. 

"Oh,  yes,  my  daughter  is  in  the  next  room,"  said  the 
Dominie ;  "there  is  so  much  to  be  attended  to — so  many 
things  that  need  to  be  done  in  making  ready  for  so  impor- 
tant a  change  in  our  circumstances.  I  have  had  some 
vague  thoughts  of  taking  up  again  my  work  in  the  church. 
I  hear  that  one  of  the  parishes  of  which  I  am  patron  is 
likely  to  be  vacant  shortly.  You  are  aware  I  was  bred  to 
the  church,  sir.  But  I  fear  that  my  duties  in  connection 
with  my  estates  may  prevent  so  desirable  an  arrangement 
and  one  so  agreeable  to  my  studious  habits — ." 

He  turned  and  looked  towards  the  inner  room. 

"Adoraf 

The  girl  came  in  at  that  moment  from  her  spinning,  over 
her  arm  a  long  "rowan"  of  wool,  in  her  hand  a  pirn  filled 
with  yarn.  At  sight  of  this  last,  her  father  cried  out  in 
reprobation  of  her  conduct. 

"Pray — think  what  you  owe  to  your  position,"  he  said, 
"and  who  has  come  to  visit  you !  If  you  have  no  pride  for 
yourself,  consider  your  father !" 

Adora  smiled — her  old  smile,  firm,  yet  gentle,  in  which, 
however,  lingered  a  trace  of  that  self-confidence  which 
still  withheld  from  her  the  full  heritage  of  womanhood. 

"Father,"  she  answered,  smiling  not  at  the  Dominie  but 
at  the  young  man,  "Mr.  Latimer  has  seen  me  spinning  be- 
fore. He  is  in  good  health.  He  can  bear  it  just  once 
more!" 

"But,"  argued  her  father,  irritably,  "circumstances 
have  changed.  We  will  repay  this  good  woman  in  some 
more  practical  fashion.  It  is  not  beseeming — ." 

Adora,  who  held  the  fifth  commandment  in  so  much 
honour  in  the  spirit  that  she  could  afford  to  treat  the  letter 
of  it  a  little  loosely,  interrupted  by  laying  the  filled  "pirn" 
down  on  her  father's  knees. 

"There!"  she  said,  "be  good  and  hold  that  till  I  have 


LOVER  OR  FRIEND  367 

time  to  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Latimer !    There  are,  I  war- 
rant, few  coats  of  arms  as  old  as  the  distaff !" 
And  she  hummed  the  old  Jack  Cade  distich : 

"When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman?" 

"Ah,  young  folk — young  folk,"  said  her  father,  sud- 
denly tempering  his  dignity,  as  if  a  pleasanter  thought  had 
crossed  his  mind,  "it  is  indeed  not  fitting  that  the  old 
should  meddle  overmuch  with  your  matters.  I  see — I  see ! 
I  will  e'en  take  a  walk  up  the  loaning  and  call  upon  mine 
host  Adam — a  good  worthy  man,  and  one  whom  I  shall 
willingly  recognise  for  his  past  kindnesses — an  honest 
fellow,  Adam — yes,  a  most  deserving  man !" 

The  Dominie  went  out  with  a  certain  swagger  of  gait 
to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger,  and  Adora  and 
Sidney  Latimer  remained  alone  together. 

But  there  was  no  embarrassment  on  either  side.  For 
the  conscience  of  Sidney  Latimer  was  clear.  He  had  come 
there  for  a  purpose  which  he  meant  to  carry  out.  And  as 
for  Adora,  she  was  able  (or  thought  she  was)  to  let  her 
intellect  direct  her  affairs  of  the  heart. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Miss  Bal — " 

"Better  say  'Adora/  said  the  girl,  smiling;  "it  did  no 
harm  before  and  it  will  not  now !" 

"No/'  said  Sidney,  a  little  bitterly,  "it  did  no  harm! 
But  now  I  have  come  to  undo  a  wrong.  Up  till  to-day  I 
had  believed  Roy  McCulloch  guilty,  at  least  in  part,  of 
causing  the  death  of  Alexander  Ewan.  It  has  now  been 
proved  that  my  suspicions  were  absolutely  groundless." 

"You  believed  that,  when  you  came  back  from  Spain  to 
save  him  from  the  gallows?"  Adora's  voice  was  a  little 
tremulous  with  surprise. 

Sidney  nodded,  colouring  slightly.  He  thought  she 
was  angry.  But  Adora  went  over  to  him  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"You  are  a  better  man  than  I  knew  of,"  she  said,  "and 
— I  thought  you  a  very  good  man !" 


368  STRONG  MAC 

"I  did  not  want  to  come  back," said  Sidney,  awkwardly; 
"you  made  me !" 

"Better  and  better!"  said  Adora;  "if  you  will  not  give 
yourself  credit  for  it,  I  will !  I  declare  if  it  were  not  that 
men  misunderstand  these  things,  I  would  kiss  you !" 

"Ah,  Adora,"  said  Latimer,  "this  time  you  are  indeed 
cruel !" 

"Am  I  ?"  said  the  girl,  "I  am  sorry.  I  meant  to  be  kind. 
I  did  not  know." 

"You  say  you  would  kiss  me,"  continued  Sidney  Lati- 
mer, "but  it  would  be  no  more  to  you  than  if  you 
patted  Roy  McCulloch's  collie  and  called  him  'Good 
dog'!" 

Adora  laughed. 

"I  thought  men  cared  for  these  things,"  she  said, 
"but  it  seems  that  they  never  know  when  they  are  well 
off!" 

"How  can  I  care  when  you  mean  to  give  all  the  sub- 
stance to  somebody  else,"  said  Latimer,  fiercely.  "I  was 
never  one  to  care  for  last  year's  roses  pressed  in  card- 
board !" 

"There  again,"  said  Adora ;  "we  have  come  to  our  old 
gate  with  the  five  bars.  You  are  always  expecting  some- 
thing of  me  which  I  cannot  give  you — " 

"Perhaps  it  is  not  yours  to  give  ?"  interrupted  the  young 
man,  jealously  and  bitterly. 

"Perhaps !"  said  Adora,  speaking  with  the  utmost  quiet- 
ness. 

"I  ask  your  pardon !"  said  Sidney,  instantly,  "I  had  not 
meant  to  hurt  you — only  to  be  fair  to — to  everyone !  I  had 
supposed  that  this  might  make  some  difference — in  your 
feelings,  I  mean !" 

"Explain  your  meaning!"  said  Adora,  calmly  biting  a 
thread. 

"Well,"  said  Latimer,  hesitating  for  words,  "if  you  are 
heiress  to  a  property,  you  cannot  very  well  shut  me  out  of 
your  house  and  company  on  the  old  excuse,  can  you  ?  Or 
forbid  me  the  door  as  you  did  at  the  schoolhouse !" 


LOVER  OR  FRIEND  369 

"No,"  said  Adora ;  "for  one  thing,  your  temper  is  better 
than  it  was.  You  are  more  master  of  yourself !" 

Sidney  Latimer  sighed,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"The  comfort  is  a  little  wintry,"  he  said,  ruefully ;  "my 
mother's  also  has  altered,  to  this  extent,  that  she  sent  me 
here  to  ask  you — a  question !  May  I  ?" 

A  faint  flush  of  rose  flickered  up  into  the  girl's  face. 
She  looked  quickly  at  the  door,  as  if  she  expected  an  in- 
terruption— or  perhaps  hoped  for  one  that  did  not  come. 

"I  think  I  would  not  ask  that  question,  if  I  were  you !" 
she  said,  very  softly. 

At  which,  without  another  word,  Sidney  Latimer  got 
up,  and  went  quickly  out  without  saying  good-bye,  or  even 
looking  at  her. 

The  girl  stood  at  the  little  window  watching  him  go 
down  the  road,  her  eyes  very  deep  and  full  of  sadness. 

"I  wonder  why  they  all  want  that — why  nothing  less 
will  satisfy  a  man  than  that  you  should  marry  him,"  she 
complained ;  "we  could  have  been  such  good  friends, 
Sidney  Latimer  and  I.  But  then  only  the  wisest  men,  they 
say,  care  for  a  woman's  friendship,  and — I  have  not  met 
with  any  very  wise  man  yet!" 

Adora  did  not  know  that  a  woman  must  have  trespassed 
some  considerable  way  into  her  fifth  decade  before  she 
can  venture  upon  choosing  a  man  to  make  a  friend  of. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

QUESTIONS   TO   ASK. 

YET  another  summer  twilight  settled  down  upon  Low- 
ran  and  the  moorland  places  we  know  so  well.  It  looked 
upon  the  plain  Scots  towers  of  Lowran  Great  House,  rude 
and  staunch,  crow-stepped  and  overarched  by  immemorial 
beeches,  among  which  the  rooks  were  drifting  black  and 
"crawing"  hoarsely  in  the  face  of  the  sunset.  Then  a  little 
farther,  and  lo !  the  same  groups,  to  all  appearance  as  of 
yore,  were  at  gossip  about  the  bridge-end.  While  within 
the  smithy — "Cling-a-clang!  Cling-a-clang!"  The  sweet 
far-off  sound  of  the  twin  hammers  came  to  your  ears. 
That  was  Ebie  Cargen  and  his  prentice  at  it — not  too 
hardly,  for  it  was  the  deadest  summer  season  and  work 
not  plentiful.  Opposite,  there  was  the  new  house  which 
Captain  Sinclair  had  been  building  to  the  unmeasured 
astonishment  of  Lowran — a  flag-staff,  white-pebbled 
paths,  rustic  seats  and  the  figure-head  of  Fortune's  Queen, 
retired  from  service  when  that  good  ship  was  refitted.  The 
latter  was  considered  indecent  by  the  villagers,  because 
scarcity  of  wood,  more  than  any  feeling  for  realism,  had 
prevented  the  artist  from  doing  more  than  merely  indicat- 
ing the  queenly  drapery. 

Over  the  hill  frowned  the  gloomy  brows  of  the  moor, 
looking  somewhat  savagely  down  upon  the  bien  and  com- 
fortable dwellings  of  Gairie  farm-town,  together  with  the 
little  flower-fringed,  rose-bowered  cottage,  where  dwelt 
Aline  of  the  Silver  Braids,  at  its  gate. 

As  Adora  looked  out  of  the  open  window  she  could  see 
the  Cleuch  of  Pluckamin,  a  deep  blue  gorge  trenched 


QUESTIONS  TO  ASK  371 

through  the  foot-hills  right  into  the  brown  scarp  of  the 
moorlands. 

The  sunlight  was  still  omnipresent  up  there,  yellow  on 
the  last  year's  bent,  rose  red  on  the  first  gorgeous  burst  of 
the  ling.  A  certain  far-off  purple-black,  cut  across  by  a 
grey  line  of  stone  dyke,  indicated  the  situation  of  the 
Marches  of  Barnbarroch.  Away  to  the  right,  and  only  to 
be  seen  by  leaning  your  head  close  to  that  part  of  the 
window-sill  at  which  Adora  was  sitting,  stretched  the  wild 
braes  of  the  Upper  Airie,  where  in  a  certain  sheiling  one 
Roy  McCulloch  was  abiding. 

A  peculiar  sadness  had  descended  upon  the  girl's  heart. 
The  much-desired  letter  had  come  from  Messrs.  Mc- 
Knight  &  McMath,  and  the  Dominie  had  hastened  to 
forward  the  necessary  proofs  of  his  identity — Dr.  Meikle- 
wham  cordially  assisting  him  with  extracts  from  the 
archives  of  the  Kirk  Session  and  from  the  introductions 
which  had  been  supplied  to  him  when  Donald  Balgracie 
came  first  to  Lowran. 

But  still  the  girl  could  not  feel  that  her  world  was  else- 
where then  here.  These  hills  and  valleys  meant  the  every- 
thing to  her.  In  ill  repute  and  in  good  repute,  she  had 
clung  to  them.  Balgracie  itself  was  to  her  no  more  than  a 
name.  Could  she  be  transplanted?  Her  heart  shrank 
affrayed  from  the  thought. 

Yet,  for  the  moment,  at  least,  residence  was  by  no  means 
to  be  desired  in  the  parish  of  Lowran.  The  mystery  of 
the  death  of  Alexander  Ewan,the  strange  unknown  Thing 
which  she  had  glimpsed  once  by  the  Marches  of  Lowran — 
yes,  up  yonder,  between  her  and  the  lonely  sheiling  of 
Roy  McCulloch.  Her  heart  gave  a  curious  throb  at  the 
identification. 

"Ah,  but" — she  reassured  herself,  "he  is  strong  enough 
to  overcome  any  dozen  men !" 

But  was  this  indeed  a  man,  this  Thing  which  fled  like  a 
hunted  shadow,  that  stabbed  from  underneath  at  the 
wholly  innocent,  that  laid  the  fear  of  midnight  assassina- 
tion upon  an  entire  parish? 


372  STRONG  MAC 

As  Adora  sat  at  the  window,  she  could  hear  her  father 
restlessly  pacing  up  and  down  the  "ben"  room,  going  over 
and  over  in  his  mind  the  wonderful  things  he  would  do 
when  he  returned  in  triumph  to  the  estates  of  his  ancestors. 
For  in  his  own  mind  he  was  once  more  the  young  and 
handsome  Donald  Balgracie,  home  for  the  college  vaca- 
tions, and  not  too  disdainful  of  the  common  orders  to 
allow  himself  to  be  spoilt  by  the  pretty  dairy-maids  of  the 
neighbourhood. 

With  the  darkening  of  the  night,  the  moon  began  to 
show  through  the  rippled  clouds.  From  a  dull  lead  the 
colour  of  ashes,  she  became  like  molten  silver.  But  the 
clouds  lay  across  her  in  great  slow-moving  waves,  and  it 
was  not  often  that  the  moonlight  shone  clear.  In  the 
west,  since  the  sun  went  down,  a  storm  had  been 
brewing. 

Adora,  sitting  thus  and  gazing  out  of  the  window,  was 
vaguely  reassured  by  the  sight  of  the  dumb  boy  motionless 
on  a  little  knoll  behind  the  house,  which  overlooked  the 
loch.  Daid's  ways  had  grown  more  than  ever  strange  and 
uncertain.  Sometimes  he  would  disappear  for  an  entire 
week,  not  even  coming  to  the  farm  for  his  morning  por- 
ridge, and  leaving  the  curds-and-whey  from  good  Adam's 
dairy  to  be  found  untouched  in  the  morning,  on  the  flat 
stone  at  the  gable-end  where  Mistress  McQuhirr  had  set 
them  the  night  before. 

As  Adora  looked,  the  quick  eye  of  the  Dumbie  de- 
tected her.  He  waved  a  beckoning  hand,  which  meant  that 
she  was  to  come  and  meet  him.  She  went  promptly,  her 
first  thought  being  that  perhaps  the  lad  was  hungry.  But 
when  she  put  the  question  to  him,  Daid  shook  his  head 
in  emphatic  negation  and  made  signs  for  a  pencil  and 
paper. 

This  was  the  message  he  wrote. 

"He's  coming  to  see  ye  the  nichtl" 

And  he  pointed  upwards  in  the  direction  of  the  sheil 
of  the  Upper  Airie.  Across  the  loch  from  where  they 
stood,  and  in  the  direct  line  between  them  and  Roy's 


QUESTIONS  TO  ASK  373 

dwelling-place,  appeared,  darkly  ominous,  the  purple  hol- 
low of  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch. 

Daid  caught  the  girl's  anxious  look,  and  swiftly  added 
a  few  words  to  the  message. 

"Dinna  be  feared.    D aid's  watching!" 

And  again  he  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 

sheil. 

#  *  ***** 

Almost  as  mysterious  as  the  movements  of  Daid  the 
Deil  must  have  seemed  to  any  outsider  those  of  Strong 
Mac  since  the  day  of  his  liberation.  As  he  looked  out  at 
eve  and  morn  from  the  open  door  of  the  little  sheil  of 
the  Upper  Airie,  he  somehow  knew  that  at  last  the  end 
was  not  far  off.  True,  he  could  not  tell  how.  For  with 
all  the  strong,  slow  persistence  of  a  nature  compounded  of 
love,  generosity,  and  the  capacity  of  suffering,  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch  lacked  Adora's  quick  and  flashing  analysis.  She 
dashed  at  truth,  and  grasped  it,  where  he  only  plodded 
along,  looking  for  it.  He  would  get  there  just  the  same, 
doubtless,  but  not  so  fast.  When  they  used  to  be  together 
in  school,  Adora  was  a  perpetual  wonder  to  him,  finding 
the  answer  to  an  arithmetical  or  mathematical  problem  by 
some  half-intuitive  process  of  her  own,  often  before  he 
had  even  set  down  on  his  slate  the  elements  of  the  question 
for  solution. 

But  one  day  Roy  met  his  father,  and  the  ex-smuggler 
had  news  for  his  son  which  would  take  him  down  to  the 
white  cot  by  the  side  of  the  lilied  waters  of  Lowran  Loch. 

"I  bid  you  not  to  believe  it,"  Sharon  said,  speaking  as 
slowly  but  far  less  grimly  than  had  been  his  wont,  "but  the 
talk  of  the  farm-towns  is — and  I'll  wager  of  the  village 
also — that  Donald  Gracie  is  left  heir  to  a  great  property, 
greater  than  Lowran,  or  Barnbarroch,  or  Glenkells — than 
all  three  put  together,  indeed.  So,  at  least,  runs  the  tale." 

"And  what  has  the  death  of  Jonathan  Grier  to  do  with 
that?"  Roy  asked  his  father. 

"Ah,  that  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you,"  responded 
Sharon ;  "those  who  ken  least  say  most.  Some  would  have 


374  STRONG  MAC 

it  that  as  long  as  Jonathan  lived  the  Lady  of  Lowran  was 
sworn  not  to  reveal  the  secret — some  that  Jonathan  was 
paid  to  remain  in  Lowran,  to  watch  the  Dominie,  and  keep 
him  from  going  back  to  his  own  place  and  his  own  people 
— on  account  of  his  failing,  they  say." 

Roy  cared  nothing  for  the  inversimilitude  of  the  tale. 
But  the  suggestion  in  the  last  words  somehow  stung  him 
to  the  heart.  He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  nor  did 
he  ask  any  more  questions.  Father  and  son  stood  on  the 
rose-purple  plain,  both  of  them  waist-high  in  ling,  and 
looked  different  ways.  Each  was  deep  in  his  own 
thoughts ! 

"Then  do  you  think  Donald  Gracie  will  go  away  from 
Lowran  now — to  his  own  place  and  his  own  people?"  the 
younger  asked  at  last  of  the  elder. 

"You  mean  his  daughter?"  said  his  father,  softly  and 
stilly. 

"I  mean  his  daughter !"    Roy  answered  as  quietly. 

"That  you  had  better  go  and  see  for  yoursel' !"  His 
father's  retort  came  like  a  whip-lash. 

"I  will !    Good  day !"  answered  the  young  man. 

"Good  day  to  you !" 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

THE  DOMINIE   ASSERTS   HIMSELF. 

AND  it  was  this  brief  interview  with  his  father  which 
brought  Roy  over  the  moors  in  the  still  time  of  the  late 
afternoon,  when  the  shadows  were  already  lengthening, 
when  all  that  the  sun  shone  upon  through  the  level  bars 
of  the  cloud  grid  shone  warm  like  yellow  ochre,  and  all 
on  which  he  did  not  shine  was  almost  as  deep  blue  as  the 
sea  under  a  north  wind.  This  flat  upland  country,  cross- 
barred  alternately  blue  and  yellow,  lay  before  Mac  as 
he  started  out.  From  horizon  to  horizon  all  was  mystic 
and  solemn.  Turning  at  the  gate,  he  ordered  his  dogs 
back,  and  they  went  with  their  tails  between  their  legs — 
but  without  surprise,  because  they  knew  well  that  Roy 
never  took  them  with  him  on  his  night  travels. 

With  the  caution  which  had  become  an  instinct  with 
him  of  late,  he  looked  this  way  and  that.  His  eye  sur- 
veyed Adam's  flocks  feeding  peacefully  on  the  Airie  hill 
behind  him.  These  were  his  care,  and  he  had  been  among 
them  that  morning.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had  been 
there,  one  was  missing,  and  he  had  failed  to  find  it,  in  spite 
of  his  strictest  search.  But  now  as  he  went  striding  down 
towards  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch,  a  buzzard  rose  from 
a  little  rift  in  the  moorland,  where  the  runnel  of  a  dry 
winter  burn  cut  sharply  underground  and  made  a  trap  for 
unwary  ankles.  The  bird  vented  a  scream  of  anger  at 
being  disturbed,  and  Strong  Mac,  pushing  away  the  earth 
and  dried  grass  with  his  foot  and  turning  back  the 
heather,  found  the  fleece  and  part  of  the  carcase  of  a 
freshly  killed  sheep — indeed,  the  very  ewe  he  had  missed 
off  the  hill  that  morning.  For  on  the  fell  of  the  neck,  in 


376  STRONG  MAC 

the  place  where  Roy  knew  to  look,  was  the  keel- 
mark  plain  to  be  seen — and  on  the  ear  Adam  McQuhirr's 
own  sign  manual,  known  all  the  way  from  Cairn  Edward 
to  Drumfern. 

When  Roy  had  examined  the  throat  of  the  animal  more 
carefully,  he  saw  that  the  animal,  instead  of  being  killed  in 
the  ordinary  way,  had  been  struck  at  from  beneath,  just 
as  Sidney  Latimer's  horse  had  been,  near  this  very  spot 
on  which  he  stood.  With  a  horse  it  was  easy,  but  what 
sort  of  being  could  strike  a  sheep  from  underneath  ? 

With  a  sudden  angry  indrawing  of  breath  Roy  raised 
himself  to  his  full  height  and  looked  abroad.  The  peace- 
ful face  of  this  moorland  still  concealed  that  deadly  and 
treacherous  creeping  Thing  which  he  had  seen  by  the  Dhu 
Loch.  While  it  lived  no  man  nor  beast  was  safe.  Lurk- 
ing in  some  covered  moss-hag,  which  a  sheep  must  cross 
with  its  short,  bounding  leap,  clicking  its  black  trotters  to- 
gether, which  a  horse  must  take  in  following  the  bridle 
path,  and  a  man  must  step  over,  striding  across  the  waste, 
death  lay  waiting. 

Sandy  Ewan's  murderer,  Jonathan  Grier's  assailant, 
the  fierce  torturer  of  children,  the  stabber  of  horses,  the 
sheep-slayer,  the  evil  Thing  for  whose  misdeeds  he  him- 
self had  twice  gone  to  jail,  and  even  now  underlay  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  suspicion — ah,  let  but  the  hand  of  the 
strong  man  descend  on  the  lurking  devil,  there  would  be 
no  mercy — assuredly  none! 

Curiously  enough  (and  the  circumstance  is  diagnostic), 
Roy  McCulloch  felt  more  anger  at  the  sight  of  his  slain 
ewe  lying  there  under  the  heather  tangles,  its  innocent 
blood  staining  the  dank  black  peat,  than  for  his  own  two 
imprisonments  and  the  risks  he  himself  had  run,  even  that 
of  the  hangman's  cord.  His  life  was  his  own.  The  ewe 
belonged  to  another — and  he  was  the  man  responsible. 

So  there  on  that  spot  Strong  Mac  swore  anew  his  oath, 
and  that  with  a  fresh  fervour.  And  all  the  while  there  was 
in  his  body  the  uneasy  sensation  of  being  watched — the 
feeling  that  comes  from  sympathy  with  the  hunted  crea- 


THE  DOMINIE  ASSERTS  HIMSELF      377 

tures,  that  carry  their  little  innocent  Jives,  as  it  were,  at 
the  knife's  point  all  their  days.  On  the  moorland  that  day 
there  were  no  birds,  no  curlews  or  snipes  whimpering 
and  bleating — no  peewits  turning  clamorous  somersaults 
over  the  heather.  Only  very  far  off  the  buzzard  hung,  at 
intervals  uttering  his  shrill  cry,  a  speck  against  the  blue, 
waiting  for  Roy's  departure.  One  of  the  ewe's  eyes, 
gouged  out,  but  still  unconsumed,  told  what  it  was  he  was 
waiting  to  descend  upon  with  the  noiseless  flight  of  his 
kind. 

So  with  that  habit  of  gentle  pity  which  had  grown  up  in 
his  great  true  soul,  Roy  covered  the  little  piteous  orb  deep 
in  the  moss-hag.  The  bird  of  prey  should  not  have  that, 
at  least,  even  though  the  unknown  beast  of  prey  had  all 
the  rest.  And  at  the  thought  Roy  swore  again. 

The  Marches  of  Barnbarroch  also  were  quiet.  There 
was  nothing  moving  anywhere  about  as  Roy  passed 
through.  Only  the  embers  of  a  fire  which  had  slightly 
blackened  the  dyke,  told  of  a  past  human  presence. 
Roy  wondered  if  by  chance  his  dead  ewe  had  been  cooked 
there.  No,  he  decided,  immediately ;  those  who  made  that 
fire  were  most  likely  tinkers,  and  tinkers,  too,  from  a  dis- 
tance. For  there  was  not  one  belonging  to  the  country- 
side that  would  dare  to  camp  near  the  evil-reputed 
Marches  of  Barnbarroch. 

*  ****** 

"I  expected  you,"  said  Adora,  smiling  with  a  satisfied 
air,  as  Roy  came  near.  "I  knew  you  were  coming!  I  have 
been  waiting  for  you !" 

The  girl  was  outwardly  calm,  but,  all  unknown  to  her- 
self, she  had  a  little  red  spot  on  each  cheek,  high  up  where 
the  national  cheek-bones  might  have  showed  but  did  not. 
She  was  sitting  on  the  little  knoll  commanding  the  loch, 
the  same  that  earlier  in  the  afternoon  had  been  Daid's 
look-out  tower. 

Roy  looked  surprised  at  Adora's  greeting,  but  he  knew 
enough  not  to  feel  flattered  or  to  extract  the  comfort  out 
of  her  confession  which  another  man  would  assuredly 


378  STRONG  MAC 

have  done.  Both  he  and  Sidney  Latimer  began  to  under- 
stand Adora  by  this  time.  Or  at  least  they  comprehended 
as  much  as  Adora  had  permitted  them  to  know,  which  was 
altogether  another  thing. 

"You  saw  me  come  down  the  cleuch-side  ?"  he  said, 
simply.  "I  had  lost  a  ewe  on  the  hill  and  I  came  that  way 
to  look  for  her." 

"I  had  hoped  that  you  were  coming  to  see  me,  Roy," 
said  the  girl;  "surely  it  is  time.  Are  you  and  I  to  be 
friends  no  longer?" 

"No,"  said  Roy  McCulloch ;  "that  is,  not  if  that  which 
I  have  heard  is  true." 

The  girl  drew  a  little  sharp  breath.  She  thought  he 
meant  that  he  had  heard  of  Sidney  Larimer's  visit,  and 
guessed  at  his  proposal.  She  did  not  want  to  quarrel  with 
Roy  a  second  time  on  account  of  Sidney  Latimer.  She 
had  not  the  self-sufficiency  she  used  to  have,  somehow. 
Formerly  she  cared  nothing  for  a  quarrel  with  any  on  the 
earth.  She  gave  sharp  words  in  plenty,  and  in  spite  of 
them,  lost  no  friends.  It  was  only  Adora's  way.  When 
she  meant  to  quarrel,  she  always  dressed  as  prettily  as  she 
could  and  looked  her  best.  For  she  knew  that  this  is  truth 
as  revealed  to  the  wise  man,  the  man  of  the  many  experi- 
ences, "Always  put  on  your  wedding  garment  when  you 
are  going  to  quarrel  with  any  one.  Sit  in  your  chair  of 
state,  and  summon  the  culprit  before  you.  It  is  good  to 
take  every  advantage  you  can." 

But  circumstances  had  compelled  Adora  to  test  her 
friends.  She  had  proved  them  in  the  furnace,  and  some 
had  gone  up  with  the  hay  and  the  stubble  in  fire  and 
smoke,  while  a  few,  a  very  few,  had  come  forth  like  gold ! 
And  of  these  the  chief  were  Roy,  and  Sidney,  and  Aline. 
So,  mindful  of  this,  the  girl  was  far  from  being  so  off- 
hand in  her  speech  as  formerly. 

Roy  sat  down  beside  Adora  without  being  asked.  The 
moors  spread  away  beh.nd  them  by  the  thousand  acres. 
There  were  miles  on  miles  of  grey  granite  boulder, 
rounded  and  weather-worn,  with  razor-edged  outcrops  of 


THE  DOMINIE  ASSERTS  HIMSELF      379 

slaty  Silurian  showing  here  and  there  like  sharks*  fins 
above  the  moor.  Heather,  too,  and  yellow  couch  grass — 
room  a-plenty  to  sit  down.  So  beside  Adora  Roy  sat 
and  characteristically  said  nothing  for  a  while.  At  any 
time  Roy's  words  were  few  and  well  ordered.  But  for  all 
that  he  did  not  abandon  the  subject. 

"No,"  he  said,  at  last,  very  deliberately,  "I  cannot  be 
your  friend,  if  that  which  I  hear  is  true — that  you  are  to 
be  a  great  and  rich  woman — that  your  father  is  leaving 
Galloway  to  take  possession  of  his  estate !  I  love  you, 
Adora.  Better  than  I  myself,  better  than  any  in  the  world, 
you  know  how  much.  You  have  always  known.  (He 
went  on  more  steadily  now.)  Perhaps  that  is  why  you 
have  cared  so  little.  Because  it  has  always  been  so — will 
always  be  so !" 

"Have  I  cared  little?" 

The  question  took  Roy  by  surprise,  nevertheless  he 
proceeded. 

"Yes,  you  have  cared  little.  I  have  never  expected  you 
to  care  much.  I  knew  better  than  that.  But  you  will  see 
why  I  cannot  be  a  rich  woman's  friend.  It  is  not  that  I 
am  poor,  or  that  I  think  that  the  wealth  of  a  princess 
would  change  you.  Again,  I  say,  I  know  you  better,  Adora. 
But  ever  since  you  could  walk,  and  you  used  to  run  about 
with  your  hand  in  mine,  one  thought  has  been  in  my  heart. 
When  we  were  together  at  school,  I  said  as  often  as  I 
looked  at  you — "I  will  call  that  girl  mine  before  I  die!" 
Now  I  know  that  to  be  impossible.  Of  late  I  have  hardly 
hoped  at  all,  but  I  have  loved  you  more  than  ever — as — 
as  a  man  loves.  But  now — there  are  others  worthier  than 
I — others  who  will  be  in  your  own  position — who  will  not 
make  you  ashamed  of  a  plain  country-bred  man  whose 
only  merit  is  that  he  loves  you,  and  that  he  has  never 
thought  of  any  other  woman  all  the  days  of  his  life — nor 
will  until  he  dies !" 

Strong  Mac  ceased.  He  had  shown  his  strength.  He 
had  hardly  ever  made  so  long  a  speech  in  his  life,  and 
as  he  was  speaking  Adora  was  astonished  to  feel  her  heart 


380  STRONG  MAC 

beating  violently.  She  tried  to  answer  in  the  ancient 
manner  of  Adora  of  the  spinning  wheel,  the  maiden  of  the 
schoolhouse,  but  ere  a  word  was  uttered,  something  took 
her  suddenly  and  violently  by  the  throat. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  managed  to  get  the  words  out  at  last, 
"you  are  good  to  care  about  me.  It  is  true — all  true — you 
do  love  me — I  know  it !  And  I  am  glad — but — !" 

Roy  rose  promptly  at  the  word. 

"In  love  like  mine  there  are  no  'buts'!"  he  said. 

"Roy,  do  not  go — "  said  the  girl,  "wait — let  me  think. 
I  want  to  keep  you — as  my  friend.  I  do  not  want  you  to 
go.  Money  will  make  no  difference — nor  position — ." 

"No,  Adora,"  said  Roy,  "go  I  must.  I  had  better  not 
see  you  again,  if  you  cannot  be  more  than  a  friend,  if  you 
cannot  be  a  poor  man's  wife.  You  know  what  the  House 
of  Muir  is.  If  you  cannot  be  the  wife  of  a  man  with  a 
stain  on  his  name — then  I,  Roy  McCulloch,  can  do  with- 
out friends !  Do  not  fear  for  me.  I  am  not  afraid  for  my- 
self— I  will  win  through !" 

"Wife — wife?  Who  talks  of  'wives'  to  my  daughter?" 
said  a  voice  which  made  them  both  turn  round. 

It  was  the  Dominie,  clothed  in  his  clerical  suit — the 
straight  wrinkles  still  in  his  black  coat  of  ancient  cut,  and 
a  ministerial  cravat  of  ancient  form  twisted  about  his 
neck.  He  held  a  silver-headed  cane  in  his  hand,  which  he 
had  picked  off  the  little  stand  beside  Aline's  doorway. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Roy,  "you  are  the 
son  of  a  respectable  man.  I  had  a  respect  for  your  father, 
and  for  a  time,  also  for  yourself.  I  have  not  forgotten  our 
time  of  sojourn  in  your  domicile.  It  was  healthy,  I  grant, 
and  so  far  comfortable.  You  shall  be  rewarded,  sir — both 
you  and  your  father,  Mr.  Sharon  McCulloch.  Do  not  be 
afraid.  But  I  would  beg  you  to  recall  to  yourself  some 
things  which  may  assist  you  to  remember  our  relative  posi- 
tions— some  things  which  you  seem  to  be  in  danger  of 
forgetting.  First,  that  the  circumstances  of  our  leaving 
House  of  Muir  were  exceedingly  unpleasant — and  for 
that,  much  against  my  will,  I  must  hold  you  responsible ! 


THE  DOMINIE  ASSERTS  HIMSELF      381 

And  secondly,  it  is  not  for  the  son  of  a  smuggler,  and 
especially  for  a  man  who  has  been  frequently  in  prison — 
justly  or  unjustly,  I  do  not  take  it  upon  me  to  say — 
upon  serious  and  even  capital  charges,  to  aspire  to  the 
hand  of  Miss  Adora  Balgracie  of  Balgracie,  sole  heiress 
of  one  of  the  oldest  houses  and  best  properties  in  the  three 
Lothians !" 

To  say  that  Adora  was  astonished  at  this  harangue  is 
to  convey  but  a  small  portion  of  the  girl's  surprise  and  in- 
dignation. The  Dominie  had  always  been  a  particular 
friend  of  Roy's,  but  the  sudden  change  in  his  circum- 
stances had  sufficed  to  turn  a  head  seriously  weakened  by 
his  own  past  habits,  and  for  the  time  being  he  could  think 
or  speak  about  nothing  but  the  greatness  of  his  position. 

"If  it  werena  for  the  bonny  lass,  and  indeed  she's  asguid 
as  she  is  bonny,  I  wad  e'en  throw  the  haverin'  auld  idiot 
into  the  loch!"  was  how  Adam  looked  at  the  matter — 
"him  to  come  hectorin'  and  orderin'  aboot  the  hoose  as  if 
he  were  the  Prince  Regent  himsel' !  Faith  ye  wad  think 
the  craitur  expected  a'  the  kye  in  the  byre  to  get  doon  on 
their  knees  and  do  him  reverence !" 

When  she  had  a  little  recovered  from  her  surprise, 
Adora  rose  from  the  grey  rock  on  which  she  had 
been  sitting,  and  went  up  to  her  father,  who  stood  a  little 
above  them.  The  old  man  was  still  trembling  with  rage 
and  weakness,  his  staff  shaking  from  side  to  side  as  he 
leaned  upon  it. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "have  you  forgotten?  This  is 
Roy,  Roy  McCulloch,  who  took  us  in  when  nobody  else 
would.  Do  you  not  remember  that  we  lived  for  months 
at  his  house?" 

"He  shall  be  amply  repaid,"  quavered  the  old  man, 
waving  her  away.  "Did  I  not  say  it?  Did  I  not  repeat  it ? 
He  shall  not  suffer.  If  the  place  of  grieve  at  Balgracie 
be  vacant  shortly,  as  I  have  reason  to  believe,  it  shall  be 
put  at  his  disposal.  Or,  if  he  will  perfect  himself  in  men- 
suration, and  apply  himself  a  little  more  than  (as  I  re- 
member) he  used  to  do  at  school,  perhaps  we  could  find 


382  STRONG  MAC 

him  a  place  as  factor — if  not  on  Balgracie  itself,  at  least 
upon  one  of  the  neighbouring  smaller  estates.  I  shall, 
naturally,  have  a  great  deal  of  influence,  politically  and 
otherwise.  And  it  shall  never  be  said  of  Donald  Bal- 
gracie  that  all  that  he  can  do  is  not  at  the  service  of  the 
humblest  of  his  friends." 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Balgracie,"  began  Roy,  re- 
strainedly. 

Adora  turned  upon  him  in  an  instant,  prettily  furious. 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "Let 
me  speak  to  my  father !" 

But  the  Dominie  only  elevated  his  voice  the  higher, 
over-passing  Adora's  protest  in  order  to  continue  his 
harangue  unchecked. 

"But  pray  remember,  sir,"  he  said,  "I,  on  my  part, 
must  first  have  a  promise  from  you.  You  must  promise 
me  never  to  breathe  a  word  of  love  or  marriage  to  my 
daughter.  You  have  in  the  past,  I  admit,  shown  your- 
self not  without  good  feeling,  and  you  must  surely  see 
how  inappropriate,  how  impossible,  how  criminal,  indeed, 
it  is  to  presume  to  approach  a  young  lady  so  far  above 
your  rank.  I  ask,  sir — nay,  I  demand  as  a  father's  right, 
a  promise  that  you  will  never  again  address  my  daughter 
on  the  subject  of  love — never,  by  word  or  implication,  re- 
quest her  to  marry  you.  Sir,  I  await  your  answer !" 

"I  give  you  that  promise,  sir !"  said  Roy,  instantly  and 
firmly,  looking  over  Adora's  head  as  he  spoke,  straight  at 
the  old  man,  who  stood  quavering,  his  body  bent  over  his 
staff,  on  which  his  hands  rested.  "I  will  never  again  ask 
your  daughter  to  marry  me.  I  have  the  honour  of  bidding 
you  both  a  good  evening !" 

And  lifting  his  hat  with  a  quiet  sufficient  dignity,  and 
without  once  looking  at  the  astonished  girl,  Roy  turned  on 
his  heel  and  strode  up  the  hill  towards  the  entrance  of  the 

Cleuch  of  Pluckamin. 

******* 

It  will  hardly  be  believed,  but  Adora  was  weeping.  Her 
sobs  choked  her.  Her  head  refused  to  reason  any  more. 


THE  DOMINIE  ASSERTS  HIMSELF      383 

There  was  nothing  logical  about  her  feelings  as  she  took 
hold  of  her  father's  arm.  He  was  gone.  Roy  was  gone 
from  her  in  anger,  and  she  would  never  see  him  more. 

But  she  had  to  go  back  with  the  Dominie  to  the  cottage. 
His  fit  of  anger  had  exhausted  him.  He  needed  attention, 
such  rapid  attention  as  his  daughter  could  afford  to  give 
him.  She  laid  him  on  the  bed,  unloosed  his  neckcloth, 
mixed  a  sip  of  brandy  and  water,  saw  his  colour  come 
back,  and  then  crying,  "Aline,  Aline — I  want  you,"  she 
committed  her  father  to  her  friend's  care. 

"Adora — Adora — what  is  it?  Ye  are  greetin'?"  cried 
her  gentle  hostess  of  the  Silver  Braids.  But  Adora  had 
no  time  to  answer.  She  had  flown  into  the  gloaming 
through  the  open  door. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

DAID'S  CROWNING  MERCY. 

THOUGH  the  night  was  near,  the  very  oncoming  gloam- 
ing was  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  for  Adora.  Roy  had  gone 
from  her  in  anger — gone  for  ever.  He  had  passed  his 
word  to  her  father,  and  ever  since  she  had  known  any- 
thing, she  had  known  that  Roy  McCulloch  would  keep  his 
word.  Her  very  life  now  seemed  to  have  been  based  on 
that.  She  would  see  him  no  more — no  more!  Small 
wonder  that  she  wept ! 

Sidney  Latimer — oh,  yes,  yes — she  was  sorry  for  Sidney 
Latimer — but  she  could  not  help  that.  How  could  she? 
Any  woman  will  be  able  to  answer  this  question. 

She  sped  on.  The  bridge  was  passed,  and  so  intent  was 
Adora  on  overtaking  Roy  that  she  never  noticed  how 
hollow  her  feet  sounded  on  the  little  wooden  structure, 
roughly  put  together  of  split  pine  trunks  and  covered  with 
planks.  Presently  she  was  in  the  long  green  aisles  of 
Pluckamin  Cleuch,  the  sunset  dying  high  above  her  in  a 
flurry  of  aerial  seas,  multitudinous  and  incarnadine, 
flecked  with  willow  leaves  of  floating  gold. 

"Roy— Roy!— Stop,  Roy!" 

The  girl's  wild  cry  went  up,  startling  the  rooks  in  the 
tall  elms  and  beeches  on  either  side,  raising  the  blackbirds 
squabbling  with  intrusive  thrushes  in  the  thickets,  and 
bringing  out  once  more  the  inquisitive  jackdaws  from  the 
ruins  of  the  ancient  hamlet  of  Pluckamin.  This  was  the 
cry  of  a  heart  at  last — "Roy — Roy!" 

But  the  young  man  had  gone  fast,  as  men  do  when  they 
carry  away  a  great  grief  with  them.  Roy  McCulloch 
walked  in  great  strides,  taking  no  heed  to  his  going,  caring 


DAID'S  CROWNING  MERCY  385 

neither  for  made  road  nor  sheep  track.  Naturally,  then, 
Adora's  stern  chase  was  a  long  one. 

Breathlessly  up  the  tangled  path  she  took  her  way,  tow- 
ards the  great  conflagration  of  gold  and  crimson  that 
hid  the  setting  sun.  The  road  in  the  shadowy  parts  was 
already  becoming  a  grey  purplish  mystery  beneath  her 
feet.  The  little  Pluckamin  Water  had  limpid  lights  and 
deep  violet  shadows  under  the  long  fringes  of  the  gall- 
bushes,  like  a  woman's  eyes. 

But  high  above  there  was  the  light — and  Roy !  Adora 
went  on  as  fast  as  she  could. 

At  last,  the  moorland,  open  and  desolate!  And,  far 
across  the  waste  now  burning  in  cardinal  and  golden 
brown  with  the  last  pigments  of  the  after-glow,  a  tall 
black  figure  was  just  dipping  into  a  hollow  of  the  path. 

"Roy — Roy.    Stop!    I  want  you,  Roy!" 

But  he  went  on — his  eyes  on  the  ground,  the  misery 
quick  in  his  heart. 

Ah,  sometimes  the  gladdest  things  and  the  sweetest 
things  lie  behind  a  man  if  he  would  but  look,  as  he  presses 
too  eagerly  or  too  bitterly,  onward. 

There — there  he  was  at  last,  on  the  rise  of  the  great 
cup-like  swell  above  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch. 

"Roy — Roy!    Stop,  Roy.    I  can  go  no  farther!" 

He  heard.  He  stayed,  uncertainly  at  first.  Now  it  was 
time  for  shame  and  uncertainty  as  to  the  Tightness  of  her 
act  to  leap  up  in  the  maiden's  mind.  But  by  this  time 
Adora's  heart  was  speaking,  and  it  spoke  as  determinately 
as  ever  her  head  or  her  intellect  had  done.  It  saw  as 
clearly,  resolved  as  surely. 

She  went  straight  to  him,  her  arms  outstretched,  with- 
out haste,  but  also  without  hesitation. 

"Roy,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  bear  it.  You  promised  my 
father  you  would  not  speak  of  love  or  marriage  to  me. 
You  will  keep  your  word,  I  know.  You  went  from  me  in 
anger.  But  if  you  will  not  speak,  you  will  listen  to  me 
when  I  speak.  /  love  you,  Roy.  Will  you  come  back? 
Will  you  marry  me?  If  you  will,  I  will.  I  always  meant 


386  STRONG  MAC 

to,  I  think,  always !  At  the  last,  I  mean.  And  oh,  when 
you  went  away  like  that,  when  you  never  looked  at  me — 
but  over  my  head,  it  was  cruel.  Oh,  cruel !  I  could  not 
bear  it.  And  you  make  me  say  these  things  now.  It  is 
your  fault — your  fault!" 

A  sweet  fault!  She  was  sobbing — comfortably  now. 
Roy  did  not  answer.  He  did  better.  He  gathered  the  girl 
up  in  his  arms  and  then  and  there  let  her  cry  her  cry  out. 

Then  when  the  sobs  grew  rarer,  mere  little  catchings  of 
the  breath,  he  lifted  up  her  face  and  kissed  her  wet  cheeks. 

"I  am  always  yours — "  he  said,  "in  life  and  in  death — 
always !  You  know  that !" 

From  her  fortress  Adora  sighed,  "Yes,  I  know!" 
Then  she  added,  "But  all  the  same  it  is  good — good  to  be 

told!" 

******** 

The  clouds  had  lifted  a  little.  The  true  darkness  had 
not  arrived — only  the  twilight  had  grown  deep  and  mys- 
terious when  Adora  and  Roy  turned  homewards.  They 
had  much  to  talk  about — much  also  to  be  silent  about,  in 
these  sweet  half  silences  of  perfect  understanding. 

Adora  asked  Roy  of  his  quest.  He  had  sworn  that  he 
would  not  give  up  that.  He  would  not  return  to  the 
House  of  Muir  till  that  was  accomplished. 

"Already  I  know  something,"  he  said;  "soon  I  shall 
know  more!  I  shall  keep  my  word,  Adora.  You  shall 
wed  a  man  without  the  stain  of  suspicion  on  his  name !" 

Then  there  came  to  Adora  what  she  had  heard  from 
Sidney  Latimer.  She  had  meant  to  tell  Roy  as  they  sat 
on  the  knoll  above  Aline's  cottage,  overlooking  the 
meadows  and  the  lily-beds.  But  the  sudden  interruption 
of  her  father  had  put  that  and  many  other  things  out  of 
her  head.  Besides,  in  comparison  with  the  great  fear  that 
had  driven  her  across  the  waste  and  through  the  Cleuch  of 
Pluckamin,  the  news  had  seemed  to  the  girl  as  nothing. 

"You  will  go  back  at  once,"  she  said ;  "the  way  is  open 
even  now — Jonathan  Grier  is  dead.  And  he  has  confessed 
all—" 


DAID'S  CROWNING  MERCY  387 

Some  little  while  before,  out  of  the  darkness  that  filled 
the  sinister  hollow  of  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch,  there 
had  risen  a  figure — the  figure  of  a  man,  bent  almost 
double.  At  first  he  was  on  the  far  side  of  the  dyke  from 
the  lovers  as  they  walked  on  entranced,  blotted  out  of  all 
knowledge  of  time  and  place  in  their  intentness  upon  each 
other. 

But  when  the  hollow  began  to  feather  downwards  with 
high  bracken  and  bending  birch,  the  dark  figure  drew 
nearer,  gliding  from  black  crag  to  grey  boulder  like  some 
cruel  misshapen  gnome,  or  wild  beast  tracking  down  a 
victim.  Once  when  the  west  cleared  a  little,  a  gleam  as  of 
bare  steel  could  be  seen. 

Roy's  arm  went  about  his  love  as  they  passed  the  splin- 
tered gates  at  the  bottom  of  the  hollow.  It  was  the  very 
place  of  death.  Roy  thought  of  the  dead  sheep  in  the 
moss-hag  not  far  away.  But  his  heart  was  high  and  proud 
within  him. 

"You  are  not  afraid  now — even  to  be  here  ?"  he  said,  for 
Adora  had  told  him  of  her  terror  when  she  went  to  seek 
Daid. 

She  looked  up,  and  he  saw  the  light  in  her  eyes.  They 
shone  like  stars  reflected  in  deep  still  water,  but  there  was 
no  fear  in  them.  It  had  been  cast  out. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  afraid !    How  should  I  be?" 

"I  will  soon  finish  the  business,"  he  said  fondly ;  "this 
terror  shall  no  longer  oppress  our  lives.  Whether  Jona- 
than Grier  has  confessed  or  no — I  have  marked  down  to  a 
certainty  the  murderer  of  Sandy  Ewan !" 

"Ah,  have  you?"  cried  a  hoarse  voice  near  them;  "then 
for  that  you  shall  die !" 

There  was  a  short  couching  growl  of  unutterable  anger, 
the  rush  as  of  a  wild  beast  through  the  underbrake,  the 
gleam  of  a  knife,  almost  before  they  could  turn  round — 
before  Roy  had  time  to  take  his  right  arm  from  about 
Adora.  The  surprise  was  so  complete  that  if  nothing  had 
happened,  both  of  them  might  have  gone  Sandy  Ewan's 
way. 


388  STRONG  MAC 

But  swifter,  fiercer,  more  deadly  came  the  irruption  of 
another  assailant,  charging  as  it  were  cross- ways  upon  the 
first,  while  in  the  middle  of  the  path  Roy  and  Adora  stood 
as  if  turned  to  stone.  They  had  not  moved.  The  sur- 
prise was  too  great.  Roy  was  ashamed  that  he  had  ven- 
tured there  unarmed,  without  a  weapon,  knowing  what 
he  did.  He  had  even  left  his  black-thorn  cudgel  upon  the 
knoll  on  which  he  had  found  Adora  sitting.  He  could 
only  clench  his  fists  and  put  the  girl  behind  him  in  some 
hope  of  disarming  his  foes  by  strength  or  trick.  Happily 
it  was  not  yet  very  dark.  The  clouds  were  visibly 
lightening. 

But  the  struggle  was  of  no  long  duration.  The  first 
and  larger  shape  bore  up  for  a  moment  against  the  on- 
slaught, swayed  a  while,  and  fell  headlong.  Something 
there  was  that  leaped  instantly  upon  the  breast,  striking 
with  murderous  fierceness.  Adora  and  Roy  could  hear  it 
panting  with  the  breathless  fury  of  the  repeated  blows. 

Then  after  a  moment  of  horrified  amazement,  high  in 
the  air  arose  the  strangest  of  human  sounds,  the  laughter 
of  the  speechless.  It  thrilled  to  the  marrow  of  the  two 
listeners.  Hastily,  yet  with  caution,  Roy  went  forward. 
Momentarily  the  west  opened  up,  ere  the  last  red  bands 
faded  into  grey  uncoloured  night.  And  this  was  what  he 
saw. 

Crob  McRobb  lying  dead,  the  knife  with  which  he  had 
meant  to  add  two  others  to  the  tale  of  his  victims  still  in 
his  hand,  while  kneeling  upon  his  breast,  striking,  and 
labouring  in  the  striking,  was  his  son,  Daid  the  Deil.  And 
as  he  struck  he  laughed,  a  laugh  that  chilled  his  hearers 
— ay,  and  far  out  over  the  waste  garred  watchers  in  dis- 
tant farms  and  women  in  lonely  cottages  swarf  with  fear 
in  their  comfortable  beds. 

Roy  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  and  pulled  him 
away  by  force.  Daid  turned  fiercely  upon  the  interrupter. 
But  recognising  Roy,  he  laughed  again.  Then  standing 
on  his  feet  he  pointed  first  to  the  dead  man  and  then  to  the 
black  cavity  of  his  mouth  from  which  the  tongue  had  been 


DAID'S  CROWNING  MERCY  389 

torn  away.  After  which  he  laughed  again,  nodding  his 
head  to  say  that  all  was  now  settled  and  finished. 

He  went  over  the  hill  laughing,  in  the  direction  of  Low- 
ran  Loch,  still  laughing. 

But  there  is  yet  a  word  to  say  for  the  wild  beast  slain, 
that  had  once  been  a  man.  In  the  struggle  on  the  Glebe 
Road,  it  was  Sandy  Ewan  who  had  been  the  aggressor — 
Sandy  Ewan  who,  first  in  his  insensate  fury,  had  trampled 
all  likeness  of  humanity  out  of  his  poacher  accomplice. 
Then  swift  and  sure  came  the  counter-stroke  which  made 
Crob  McRobb  a  murderer  and  a  hider  in  dens  and  caves 
of  the  earth.  Here  like  a  true  wild  beast  he  had  lain  and 
licked  his  sores,  so  far  curing  himself  that  he  was  able 
once  more  to  crawl  abroad.  But  after  Sandy  Ewan's  heel 
had  crushed  him  out  of  all  semblance  of  manhood,  he  car- 
ried no  more  within  him  the  heart  of  a  man.  So  it  was 
like  a  very  devil  that  he  had  resented  the  interference  of 
his  son,  the  espionage  of  Roy  McCulloch,  and  the  refusal 
of  his  request  by  his  sometime  partner  in  evil,  Jonathan 
Grier. 

For  by  this  time  Crob  was  gaining  in  strength  and 
agility,  and  the  old  poacher  doubtless  began  to  feel  the 
want  of  another  weapon  than  his  knife,  both  for  the  pur- 
poses of  the  chase  and  for  those  of  revenge  against 
human  enemies.  To  his  failure  at  the  Dhu  Loch,  Roy  Mc- 
Culloch and  many  others  doubtless  owed  their  lives.  To 
that  and  to  the  ceaseless  watchfulness  of  the  maimed 
boy. 

It  was  small  wonder,  therefore,  considering  what  he 
had  suffered,  that  Daid  McRobb  went  over  the  hill  and  out 
of  this  history,  laughing  that  strange,  weird,  triumphant 
laugh.  He  had  kept  his  word  to  the  Red  Judge. 

He  had  "killed  the  man  who  had  done  That !" 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

A   FEW   OPINIONS. 

THAT  is  the  whole  story,  but,  as  is  always  the  case, 
certain  people  had  a  word  to  say  about  it.  And  first, 
by  right  of  trover,  let  us  hear  Aline  of  the  Silver  Braids. 

"Ye  see,  my  dears,"  she  said  to  Roy  and  Adora,  "I  ex- 
pected it  from  the  first.  Ay,  I  made  it  a  maitter  o'  prayer. 
Richt  or  wrang,  I  made  it  a  maitter  o'  prayer.  I  ay 
kenned  that  in  your  heart  ye  cared  aboot  him — !" 

"Then  you  knew  more  than  I  did  myself !"  said  Adora 
smilingly. 

"I  kenned — oh,  ay — brawly  I  kenned!"  Aline  con- 
tinued. "And  how,  says  you  ?  Juist  by  this — ye  had  never 
a  guid  word  to  say  aboot  him,  yet  the  moment  I  began  to 
agree  wi'  ye  and  abuse  him  too — fegs,  ye  were  a'  on  fire 
like  a  wisp  o'  tow !  Oh,  lassie,  I'm  feared  you  twa  are  in 
my  heart — whiles  abune  the  things  that  are  eternal  and  i' 
the  heevens !  And  if  ye  had  mairried  the  Laird,  I  wad 
never — ." 

"Sidney  Latimer  is  a  good  man  and  a  true !"  said  Adora. 
And  then  perhaps  conscious  of  the  commonplace  of  her 
phrase,  she  added,  "And  if  I  had  loved  him,  I  am  not  sure 
that  you,  Roy,  would  have  come  so  far  to  save  him  from 
the  gallows !" 

Roy  smiled  but  refused  to  be  drawn.    He  knew  Adora. 

"And  that  puir  dumb  laddie/'  interrupted  Aline,  who 
disliked  personalities ;  "have  they  never  fand  him  ?  What 
can  hae  come  o'  him,  think  ye?" 


A  FEW  OPINIONS  391 

Roy,  who  was  still,  as  ever,  a  man  of  few  words,  pointed 
with  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the 
Loch  of  Lowran. 

"  'Deed  and  if  that  be  sae — I  blame  him  little,"  she  said, 
as  if  answering  an  unspoken  objection.  "It  maun  hae 
been  an  awfu'  thing  to  see — and  a  mair  awfu'  thing  to  do ! 
For  though  Crob  had  been  a  murderer  and  far  waur,  he 
was  the  laddie's  ain  faither,  after  a' !  Gin  puir  Daid  be 
lying  at  the  bottom  o'  the  loch,  he's  maybe  the  better  aff . 
I  mind  o'  him  askin'  me  yae  nicht  in  the  winter  time, 
writing  on  the  slate,  if  I  thocht  that  it  wad  tak'  lang  to 
droon,  and  if  the  water  wad  be  awesome  cauld.  So  he 
had  it  in  his  head  even  then,  the  puir,  mishandled,  ill- 
used  craitur!  And  it  comes  to  me  whiles  that  the  Lord 
up  yonder  willna  be  that  verra  hard  on  peetifu',  mis- 
guided bairns  like  Daid,  that  never  had  a  chance  to  do 
richt  since  the  day  they  were  brocht  into  the  warl' !  What 
think  ye?" 

And  upon  this  point  Adora  and  Roy,  who  were  far 
from  setting  up  as  theologists,  made  bold  to  agree  with 

Aline  McQuhirr. 

******* 

At  this  point  we  are  honoured  by  the  receipt  of  a  valu- 
able document.  It  is  headed,  "The  opinions  of  the  Rev- 
erend Dr.  Cyrus  Meiklewham,  Minister  of  the  parish  of 
Lowran,  written  down  by  himself,  for  the  purposes  of  this 
chronicle : 

"It  is  my  matured  and  definite  opinion  (says  Dr. 
Meiklewham),  after  sixty  years  of  experience  in  my 
present  position  as  minister  of  the  parish  of  Lowran — and 
during  forty-one  of  these  (come  next  Michaelmas)  as 
Clerk  to  the  Presbytery  of  St.  Cuthbertstown — that  no 
events  at  all  compare *»1e  in  interest  to  those  connected 
with  the  death  of  the  I'ifcc  Mr.  Alexander  Ewan,  Esquire, 
of  Boreland,  and  the  arrest  and  trial  of  my  esteemed 
friends,  the  McCullochs,  elder  and  younger,  of  House  of 
Muir,  have  occurred  within  the  oldest  memory  in  our  part 
of  the  country.  It  was  indeed  a  sore  and  heavy  blow  to 


392  STRONG  MAC 

me  when  my  esteemed  session-clerk  and  ruling  elder,  Mr. 
Gracie,  was  for  a  time  removed  from  our  little  fellowship 
by  the  somewhat  hasty  act  of  the  Presbytery.  I  had  a  high 
regard  for  Mr.  Grade's  person,  and  a  yet  higher  for  his 
amiable  daughter.  So  that  none  rejoiced  more  than  I 
when  the  news  spread  abroad  through  the  country  that, 
by  a  surprising  turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune,  Mr.  Bal- 
gracie  (of  Balgracie),  to  give  my  old  friend  his  own 
proper  name  and  style,  had  become  the  heir  to  a  landed 
property  and  to  a  considerable  sum  in  the  funds.  True, 
the  amount  has  been  greatly  overstated,  as  I  have  just 
heard  direct  from  my  own  sister's  son,  William,  who  is, 
as  most  people  know,  apprenticed  to  the  law  in  the  office 
of  Messrs.  McKnight  &  McMath  in  Parliament  Close, 
Edinburgh.  But,  after  all,  and  with  all  deductions,  there 
is  enough  left  to  be  a  very  heartsome  downstitting  for  the 
young  lass  and  the  lad  McCulloch — a  worthy  son  of  a 
worthy  father — though  I  should  have  thought  she  might 
have  done  better  for  herself  than  marry  the  son  of  a 
bonnet  laird.  Howsomever,  as  I  well  know,  young  folk 
are  apt  to  be  headstrong  and  foolish.  There  is  my 
daughter  Hope,  to  look  no  further  afield,  who  has  no  more 
reverence  in  her  nature  than  a  last  year's  black-faced  tup. 
But  yet  for  all  that  is  a  good  lass  and  a  bonny,  though  I 
have  to  say  so  myself.  She  tells  me  that  there  never  was 
any  truth  in  the  rumour,  industriously  spread  abroad  in 
the  parish,  that  the  late  Dominie's  daughter,  Adora  Gracie 
(afterwards  Miss  Balgracie,  of  Balgracie,  not  to  forget 
her  due  honours),  had  for  a  time  engaged  the  affections  of 
Mr.  Sidney  Latimer.  It  certainly  was  a  thing  no  little 
astonishing  that  she  went  all  the  long  road  to  Spain  to 
bring  him  back  from  the  wars.  But  it  is  now  made 
abundantly  manifest  what  her  reason  was  for  this  unusual 
act.  And  a  brave  lass  she  was  I  am  not  denying,  thus  to 
risk  her  life  and  more — her  reputation — to  do  service  to 
the  man  she  loved,  presently  in  grave  danger  of  his  life. 
"But  as  to  the  patron  of  the  parish,  Mr.  Sidney  Latimer 
of  Lowran,  ever  having  been  seriously  in  love  with  the 


A  FEW  OPINIONS  393 

daughter  of  the  village  schoolmaster- — the  idea  is  pre- 
posterous. And  indeed  I  have  my  daughter's  direct 
authority  for  contradicting  it.  Moreover,  she  is  in  the 
direct  way  of  knowing,  as  I  observe  many  letters  coming 
to  her  address  (with  heavy  charges  to  pay,  which  it  falls 
to  me  to  liquidate)  in  the  hand  and  under  seal  of  Mr. 
Sidney  himself  (who  remains  abroad,  doing  his  duty  at 
the  wars  with  my  Lord  Wellington),  I  consider  that  I  do 
no  more  than  my  duty  in  thus  contradicting  such  reports 

with  all  the  authority  of  my  office." 

#  *  *  *  *  *  # 

To  which  is  appended  the  ricochet  of  Purslane's  opin- 
ions, as  expressed  by  Mrs.  Latimer,  as  followeth : 

"And  a  great  blessing  it  is,  Purslane,  that  I  took  my 
own  opinion  and  not  yours  in  the  matter  of  this  young 
woman.  Balgracie  of  Balgracie  is  doubtless  an  auld  name, 
but  it  has  been  sore  trashed  with  trade  this  while  back. 
So  that,  truth  to  tell,  they  are  little  better  than  Glasgow 
draper  bodies,  after  a' !  And  the  auld  f ule,  the  Dominie 
that  was — they  tell  me  is  juist  oot  o'  his  head  wi'  pride. 
And  no  that  muckle  to  be  heir  to  after  a' — maistly  bonded, 
I'se  warrant,  to  far  abune  its  value !  And  the  siller  in  the 
bank  nae  mair  than  will  buy  the  bairn  a  gown,  as  the 
sayin'  is  wheen  a'  is  said  and  dune !  Ay,  a  great  blessing 
that  I  held  to  my  ain  advice ! 

"Furthermore  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  ye,  Purslane,  to 
hearken  to  your  mistress  anither  time.  A  bonny-like 
thing  if  my  son  Sidney  had  disgraced  himsel'  wi'  marryin' 
into  a  family  like  that !  Noo,  there's  the  minister's  lass. 
She'll  no  hae  ony  great  tocher,  but  he's  a  bien  snug  man 
the  doctor,  and  has  been  a  saver  and  never  a  spender  a' 
his  life.  Forbye  the  lass  is  bonny,  and  douce,  ana  biddable 
— no  like  a  certain  prood  madam,  that  when  ye  speak  to 
her  for  her  guid,  looks  at  ye  as  if  she  could  bite  brandy- 
snaps  oot  o'  ye!  If  it's  to  be,  and  I  maun  open  the  door 
to  anither  mistress  at  the  Hoose  o'  Lowran — I  ken  never 
a  better  than  juist  denty,  faceable  Hope  Meiklewham, 
that  has  been  at  my  beck  and  call  ever  since  she  was  born !" 


394  STRONG  MAC 

"It's  a  Guid's  blessing  ye  are  pleased,  Mistress,"  said 
Purslane,  adding  under  her  breath,  "the  noo!" 

******* 

Next  in  order  is  the  report  in  that  excellent  local  paper, 
the  Drum  fern  Observer  (with  which  is  incorporated  the 
St.  Cuthbertstown  Gazette). 

'The  recent  trial  at  the  spring  assizes  of  two  respect- 
able Galloway  householders  for  murder,  and  their  sub- 
sequent triumphant  acquittal,  must  be  fresh  in  the  memory 
of  all  our  readers.  But  as  the  real  murderer  or  murderers 
of  the  late  Mr.  Ewan  of  Boreland  had  not  been  discovered, 
considerable  mystery  continued  for  some  time  to  envelop 
the  case. 

"This  has  at  last  been  cleared  away  in  a  highly  satisfac- 
tory manner,  thanks  to  the  unremitting  efforts  of  our  able 
and  highly  respected  fiscal,  Mr.  Richard  Henderson,  sec- 
onded by  the  acumen  and  tact  of  our  admirable  sheriff- 
substitute,  Mr.  Martin  Milroy. 

"The  culprits  turn  out  to  have  been  a  pair  of  local 
poachers  of  the  worst  repute,  father  and  son,  of  the  names 
of  'Crob'  or  Crobin  McRobb  and  David  McRobb.  They 
have  been  long  suspected,  and  indeed  were  on  the  very 
point  of  being  captured  and  brought  to  justice  by  the 
active  and  intelligent  officers  of  the  law,  when  they  both 
perished  in  a  murderous  fracas,  in  which  one  was 
wounded  to  the  death  and  the  other  anticipated  justice  by 
drowning  himself.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Baillie,  of  Hard- 
hills,  has  sent  us  a  very  powerful  sermon,  suggested  by  the 
tragic  occurrence.  It  is  upon  the  text  from  Psalm  Iv.  23 : 
'Bloody  cond  deceitful  men  shall  not  live  out  half  their 
days.'  The  sermon  is  at  once  'a  powerful  and  touching  ap- 
peal to  the  consciences  of  offenders  and  most  comfortable 
to  them  that  believe/  as  the  author  himself  obligingly 
states  on  his  first  page.  But  owing  to  an  unfortunate  pres- 
sure on  our  outer  advertising  columns  (and  what  we  would 
draw  special  attention  to,  the  remarkable  notice  of  the 
opening  of  the  new  premises  erected  by  Messrs.  Sharp  & 
Scrape,  near  the  Tron,  in  the  finest  situation  our  town 


A  FEW  OPINIONS  395 

affords)  we  are  prevented  from  availing  ourselves  of  the 
reverend  gentleman's  most  obliging  offer." 

From  which  it  will  be  seen  that,  as  occasionally  happens, 
the  journalistic  account  is  defective  on  some  points,  and 
more  than  a  little  redundant  on  others. 


CHAPTER   L. 

THREADS  DRAWN   TOGETHER. 

MR.  DONALD  BALGRACIE'S  princely  expectations  were, 
happily  for  himself,  not  verified.  Messrs.  McKnight  & 
McMath,  of  Parliament  Close,  after  a  careful  actuarial 
investigation  of  the  affairs  of  the  late  Mr.  William  Bal- 
gracie,  died  intestate,  found  that  instead  of  that  gentle- 
man's speculations  having  conducted  him  to  enormous  for- 
tune, there  remained  of  the  whole  estate  which  had  been 
left  by  his  father,  Archibald  Balgracie,  of  Balgracie,  only 
a  paltry  £12,000.  Paltry,  that  is,  in  comparison  with  the 
great  sums  with  which,  as  contractor  for  the  troops  on 
foreign  service,  and  especially  during  the  late  unfortunate 
war  with  the  United  States  of  North  America,  he  had 
juggled  in  a  sort  of  game  of  cup  and  ball. 

But  at  that  date  of  which  we  speak  twelve  thousand 
pounds  was  not  accounted  a  paltry  sum  in  Galloway.  It 
is  not  so  accounted  even  now.  It  chanced  very  oppor- 
tunely that  Mr.  Chesney,  of  Barwhinnock,  having  also 
had  losses,  through  speculation  and,  the  unkind  whis- 
pered, wasterful  living,  wished  to  dispose  of  part  of  his 
property.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Mr.  Donald  Balgracie 
(nominally)  and  Roy  and  Adora  McCulloch  really  be- 
came owners  of  the  ground  on  both  sides  of  the  House  of 
Muir.  Their  first  work  was  to  construct  a  new  avenue 
which  would  lead  directly  down  to  the  village,  avoiding 
both  the  gloomy  Cleuch  of  Pluckamin  and  the  yet  more 
tragic  memories  of  the  Marches  of  Barnbarroch. 

After  long  discussion,  and  at  the  urgent  request  of 


THREADS  DRAWN  TOGETHER    397 

Sharon  himself,  the  young  couple  consented  to  make  their 
home,  as  in  the  days  of  the  first  outcasting,  at  House  of 
Muir.  But  first  of  all  they  had  a  new  wing  built,  and  in  a 
room  to  the  right  as  you  enter  the  Dominie  still  has  his 
books  and  his  afternoon  nap.  His  brief  assumption  of 
dignity  had  been  but  a  flash  in  the  pan,  and  long  ere  now 
he  has  quite  forgotten  that  he  was  ever  served  heir  to  the 
estates  of  Balgracie.  He  has  become  quite  incompetent 
for  business,  and  Messrs.  McKnight  &  McMath  have 
engineered  an  amicable  family  arrangement,  in  virtue  of 
which  the  purchase  of  the  properties  of  Barwhinnock  has 
been  carried  through  and  the  building  of  the  new  part  of 
the  house  proceeded  with. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  their  first  year's  occupancy 
of  the  House  of  Muir — that  is,  of  the  new  house  built  by 
the  unexhausted  moneys  of  William  the  Speculator,  that, 
in  the  stillness  of  an  evening  in  mid-August  Roy  and 
Adora  went  out  for  their  usual  ramble  in  the  twilight. 
The  heather  had  been  late  that  year,  and  was  now  coming 
on  in  a  wine-hearted  rush  of  colour. 

They  left  the  Dominie  drowsing  over  his  book.  He 
awaked,  however,  momentarily,  to  the  fact  that  there  was 
a  certain  stir  of  departure  in  the  air. 

"Ah,  good-night,  Roy/7  he  said,  looking  up,  and  hold- 
ing out  his  hand,  "come  and  see  us  again  soon !  We  will 
have  a  page  together — you  and  I — a  page  together — 
though  to-night  you  made  many  a'  'maxie'  that  you  should 
have  been  soundly  whipped  for !  See  and  do  better  next 
time — or  who  knows — perhaps  you  will  find  that  the  old 
arm  has  not  quite  lost  its  cunning.  Methinks  the  Dominie 
could  handle  an  ash-plant  yet.  Where  are  you  going, 
Adora,  lass  ?" 

"Only  with  Roy — to  the  gate!"  said  the  girl,  smiling; 
'I  will  be  back  in  time  to  put  you  to  bed !" 

"Ah,  do  so,"  he  said ;  "I  heard  there  were  ill  characters 
about !  See  that  the  school  gate  is  carefully  locked.  But 
do  not  be  late.  Nothing  is  more  unfitting  in  a  young  girl 
than  late  hours !" 


398  STRONG  MAC 

"No,  father!"  said  the  girl  quietly.  The  fact  of  his 
daughter's  marriage  had  been  too  recent  to  remain  long  at 
a  time  in  the  Dominie's  mind. 

"Good-night,  Roy,  you  have  a  long  tramp  before  you !" 
the  old  man  called  after  his  son-in-law,  "but  keep  a  stout 
heart  for  a  stey  brae,  as  the  saying  is !" 

As  they  passed  out  Sharon  was  sitting  by  his  own  door 
reading.  His  stern  face  relaxed  as  Adora  came  in  sight. 
He  had  rooms  and  a  door  of  his  own,  but  Adora  man- 
aged the  two  united  houses.  The  stern  old  man  always 
rose  courteously  when  he  saw  her.  He  walked  with  his 
son  and  daughter  across  the  yard  to  the  gate.  Silently 
Adora  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  the  old  smuggler, 
at  the  light  touch  of  her  fingers  on  his  sleeve,  gripped  him- 
self with  a  little  swift  shiver. 

"Will  you  come  with  us,  father?"  she  said ;  "we  are  go- 
ing down  the  road  towards  Ailie's.  The  Dominie  will  be 
all  right  with  Captain  Ebenezer.  He  is  staying  all  night." 

"No,  no;  by  and  bye  I  will  join  them,"  said  Sharon; 
"my  day  for  walks  in  the  gloaming  is  past.  But  I  had  it, 
and  it  was  a  good  day.  Go  your  ways,  bairns,  go  your 
ways !" 

They  went  down  the  new  avenue  close  together,  the  raw 
edges  of  the  slate  not  yet  overgrown  with  the  ivy  which 
Adora  had  been  planting.  The  twilight  deepened  as  they 
proceeded,  gently  and  soothingly,  a  sweet  close  to  a  per- 
fect day.  The  wide  sweep  of  the  moorland  shut  in  about 
them,  isolating  them.  They  were  solitary,  with  that  feel- 
ing of  indefinable  pensive  wistfulness  which  only  a  Scot- 
tish moor  at  twilight  calls  out. 

"You  shiver,  dear!"  said  Roy,  suddenly,  "let  me  draw 
your  shawl  closer  about  you !" 

"No,"  Adora  made  answer,  "it  was  not  cold — only  a 
thought  which  came  to  me !" 

"Ah,  I  know,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "dark  things — terrible 
things  happened  down  there.  But  you  know  our  agree- 
ment. You  were  not  to  think  of  them  or  speak  of  them  if 
we  walked  this  way !" 


THREADS  DRAWN  TOGETHER    399 

"It  is  not  as  you  think,"  she  answered  him,  laughing 
bravely  rather  than  heartily,  "the  past  is  past!  I  never 
think  of  it.  /  have  you!" 

"What  then?"  he  whispered,  bending  a  little  so  that  his 
ear  might  be  near  her  lips. 

"I  was  thinking  what  would  have  happened  if  you  had 
not  made  me  ask  you  to  marry  me  that  night  by  the 
Marches  of  Barnbarroch !" 

"Suppose  I  had  said  no?"  said  Roy,  smiling  happily 
down  at  her. 

"Suppose — suppose!"  she  mimicked  him  petulantly, 
"ah,  it  is  too  late  for  that  now !  Besides — "  she  clutched 
his  arm  in  the  swift,  impulsive  manner  which  had  come  to 
Adora  with  the  rest  of  the  new  things. 

"Besides,"  she  continued,  "two  can  play  at  that  game. 
I  also  have  a  word  to  say  to  you." 

His  eyes  looked  the  question  he  refrained  from  asking. 
She  reached  up  her  lips  to  his  ear,  at  the  same  time  putting 
her  platted  fingers  across  his  eyes. 

"Suppose!"  she  said. 


[THE  END.] 


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